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TO CALL HER MINE. 


A NOVEL. 



NEW YORK: 

GEORG,E MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

^7 TO 27 Vandkwatsr Stekkt. 


T2 3 

,15 ^ C. b T«r 5 


WALTER JSESANT’S AVOKKS 

CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE lABRARY (ROCKET EDITION): 

NO. PKICIC. 

97 All in a Garden Fair ■SO 

137 Uncle Jack 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune 10 

146 Love Finds the Way, and Other Stories. By Bcsant 

and Bice 10 

230 Dorothy Foster 20 

324 In Luck at Last . . . . ’ . . . .10 

651 “ Self or Bearer ” 10 

882 Children of Gibeon 20 

904 The Holy Rose 10 

906 The World Went Very Well Then . . ... 20 

980 To Call Her Mine 20 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


CHAPTER L 

DAVID MAKES A STATEMENT. 

I WILL now/^ said the German, “ read your statement 
over, and you can sign it if you like. Remember, how- 
ever, what your signature may mean. As for what I shall 
do with it afterward, depends on many things. 

“ Do what you like with it,^^ replied the Englishman, 
slowly and huskily. “ Send it to the police in London, if 
you like. I don’t care what becomes of it, or of myself 
either. Eor I am tired of it; I give in. There! I give in. 
!No one knows what it is like until you actually come to 
fight with it. ” 

He did not explain what ‘‘ it ” was; but the other 
seemed to understand what he meant, and nodded his head 
gravely, though coldly. “It,” spoken of in this way, is 
generally some foe to man. If toothache, or earache, or 
any ordinary physical evil, had been meant, that German, 
or any other German, Frenchman, Russian, or Englishman 
would have nodded his head with a sympathetic murmur. 
Since there was no murmur, therefore there was no sympa- 
thy. 

The two men were, as you will presently admit, a most 
curious couple to look upon, set among most remarkable 
surroundings, if only there had been any spectators or audi- 
ence to watch and admire them. The scene — none of your 
conventional carpenter’s scenes, but a grand set scene — 
was, if possible, more interesting than the couple in the 
foreground. For in front there stretched the sea-shore, 
the little waves lapping softly and creeping slowly over the 
level white coral sand; beyond the smooth water lay the 
coral reef with its breakers; at the back of the sandy shores 
was a gentle rise of land, covered with groves of cocoa- 


c 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


palms and bananas; among them were clearings planted 
with fields of sweet potatoes and taro; two or three huts 
were visible beneath the trees. Again, beyond the level 
belt rose a great green mountain, five or six thousand feet 
high, steep, and covered to the summit with forest. Here 
and there a perpendicular cliff broke the smoothness of the 
slope, and over the cliff leaped tiny cascades — threads of 
light sparkling in the evening sunshine. The time was 
about six — that is, an hour before sunset; the air was warm 
and soft; the sloping sunshine lay on grove and clearing, 
sea-shore and mountain-side, forest and green field, mak- 
ing everything glow with a splendid richness and prodigal- 
ity of color, softening outlines and bringing out new and 
unsuspected curves on the hill-side. The midday sun 
makes these thick forests black with shade; the evening 
sun lights them up, and makes them glorious and warm 
with color. 

As one saw the place this evening, one might see it every 
evening, for in New Ireland there is neither summer nor 
winter, but always, all the year round, the promise oL 
spring, the heat of summer, and the fruition of autumn; 
with no winter at all, except the winter of death, when the 
branches cease to put forth leaves, and stretch out white 
arms, spectral and threatening, among their living com- 
panions in the forest. Sometimes one may see whole acres 
of dead forest standing like skeletons by day and like ghosts 
by night, till the white-ants shall have gnawed their way 
through the trunks to prepare their fall, and till the young 
shoots at their feet shall have sprung up round them to hide 
the ghastly whiteness of death. The reason of this com- 
mingling of spring and summer, autumn and winter, is. 
that the latitude of New Ireland, as everybody knows, is 
about four degrees south, which is very near the isothermal 
line. People who desire to feel the warmth of this latitude 
— a warmth which goes right through and througli a man, 
like light through a pane of glass — need not go so far as 
New Ireland, but may stop on their way at Singapore, 
where there are not only no cannibals, but the hotels — 
there are no hotels in New Ireland — are “ replete, as the 
advertisements say, “ with every comfort.’’^ 

Considering that New Ireland has been visited by so very . 
few, and that the place is as yet entirely unexplored, tlie 
fact that here were two Europeans upon it at the same/ 


TO CALL MINE. 


time, and yet not arrived there with the same objects, was 
in itself remarkable; the more so because its people have a 
curious and cultivated taste in cookery, and prefer roasted 
Brother Man to the roast of any other animal, insomuch 
that missionaries have hitherto avoided these shores, feeling 
that to be killed and eaten before converting anybody 
would be a sinful waste of good joints. After the conver- 
sion of many, indeed, the thing might take the form and 
present the attractions of serviceable martyrdom. 

Where the situation and the scene were both so remark- 
able, it seems almost superfluous to point out that the ap- 
pearance of both men was also remarkable; although, 
among such surroundings, any man might well strive to 
live and present an appearance up to the scene. One of 
them — the German — was a man of colossal proportions, 
certainly six feet in height, and broad in proportion, with 
strong shoulders and well-shaped legs — both legs and shoul- 
ders being bare, and therefore in evidence. He was still 
quite a young man — well under thirty. His hair was light 
brown, short and curly; an immense brown beard covered 
his face and fell over his chest. His eyes were blue and 
prominent, and he wore spectacles. His dress was modeled 
generally, but with modifications, on the dress of the in- 
habitants of these islands. His only robe was a great piece 
of Feejee tapu cloth, white, decorated with black lozenges 
and a brown edging; it was rolled once round his waist, 
descending to his knees, and was then thrown over his left 
shoulder, leaving the right arm bare. The sun had paint- 
ed this limb a rich warm brown. He wore a cap some- 
thing like that invented, and patented for the use of soli- 
taires, by Robinson Crusoe: it was conical in shape, and 
made of feathers brightly colored. He had sandals of thin 
bark tied to his feet by leather thongs, and he wore a kind 
of leather scarf, from which depended a revolver-case, a 
field-glass in a case, a case of instruments, and a large 
water-proof bag. These constituted his whole possessions, 
except a thick cotton umbrella, with a double cover, green 
below and white above. This he constantly carried open. 
He was smoking a large pipe of the shape well known in 
Germany. Lastly, one observed in him a thing so incon- 
gruous that it was really the most remarkable of all. You 
know the Robinson Crusoe of the stage; you know the holy 
^ man or the hermit of the Royal Academy. Both the Rob- 

1 


8 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


inson Crusoe of the stage and the St. Anthony of the de- 
sert in the picture are as clean as if they had just come out 
of the bath, or at least had been quite recently blessed with 
a heavy shower, and they are, besides, as well-groomed as 
if they had just completed a careful morning toilet. Now 
Kobinson on his island and the hermit in his desert may 
have been picturesque, but I am quite certain that they 
were alwa5^s unkempt, unclean, and uncared-for. This 
young man — say this young gentleman— -was most care- 
fully groomed, although he was on a cannibal island. His 
hands were clean, and his nails did not look as if they had 
been torn off by the teeth (I have often thought of poor 
Eobinson^s sufferings in this respect); his face was clean; 
his hair neatly cut, though it was cut by his own hands, 
and had been brushed that day; his great beard was care- 
fully combed; and his toga of native cloth was clean. Now 
a neat and clean beach-comber is a thing never heard of. 
Always they are in rags; and when they do descend so low 
as to wear the native dress, they have generally assumed 
and made their own the manners and customs of a native. 

This interesting person was, as I have said, a German. 
Now what is pedantry in an Englishman is thoroughness in 
a German. No Englishman could have worn this dress 
without feeling as if the whole world^s finger of scorn was 
turned upon him; but to the German the dress was part of 
the programme. He had learned the language, and what 
he could of the manners, before landing on the shore. A 
dress as nearly as possible approximating to the Polynesian 
garb was a natural accompaniment to the language. The 
spectacles, the umbrella, and the cap of feathers were nec- 
essary concessions to European civilization. 

The other man, one could see immediately, was an En- 
glishman. It was also clear to any one who had eyes and 
understanding that he was an Englishman of country birth 
and breeding. To begin with, his clothes were not those 
of a sailor. The rough flannel shirt, which [had lost all its 
buttons and one of its sleeves; the coarse canvas trousers; 
the old boots broken down at heel, and showing in the toes 
an inclination — nay, a resolution — for divorce between sole 
and upper; the broad shapeless felt hat — all spoke of the 
soil. His gait and carriage sung aloud of plowed fields; 
his broad and ruddy cheeks, his reddish-brown hair and ■ 
beard, spoke of the south or west of England. No doubt 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


9 


he was once — how did such a one contrive to get to the 
shores of New Ireland? — a farmer or laborer. He was a 
well-built man, who looked short beside this tall German. 
But he was above the average height. His age might be 
about six or eight-and-twenty. His hair hung in masses 
over his shoulders, and his beard was thicker than his com- 
panion's, though not so long; and so far from being clean 
and trim, he presented a very unwashed, uncombed, and 
neglected appearance indeed. His face, which had been 
once a square full face, was drawn and haggard; his eyes, 
which were meant to be frank, were troubled; and his car- 
riage, which should have been upright and brave, was heavy 
and dejected. He seemed, as he stood before the other 
man, at once ashamed and remorseful. 

“ Listen; I will read it carefullj and slowly,'" said the 
German. ‘ ‘ Sit down while I read it. If there is a single word 
that is not true, you can alter that word before you sign." 

The man sat down obediently— there was a curious slow- 
ness about his movements as well as his speech — while the 
German read the document, which was written very closely 
on two pages of a note-book. Space was valuable, because 
this note-book contained all the paper there was on the 
island of New Ireland, and had, therefore, to be husband- 
ed. He read in a good English accent, not making more 
confusion of his f "s and v's than was sufficient to assert his 
pride of nationality. And as he read he looked down upon 
the man whose words be was repeating with contempt and 
astonishment. For the man had done so dreadful and ter- 
rible a thing; he had committed a crime which was horri- 
ble, and required the white-heat of rage and fury; and yet 
the man looked so pitiful a creature! 

“ Listen," he said again, “ and correct me when I am 
wrong." 

This was the paper which he read on the shore of the 
Pacific Ocean, and on the island of New Ireland, one even- 
ing in the year 1884: 

‘‘ I, David Leighan, farmer, of the parish of Challa- 
combe, Devonshire, being now on an island in the 
Ocean, where I expect to be shortly killed and eaten by the 
cannibals, declare that the following is the whole truth con- 
cerning the death of my uncle, Daniel Leighan, of the same 
parish, farmer. 


10 


TO CALL HEK MIITE. 


“ He jockeyed me out of my property; he kept on lend- 
ing me money in large sums and small sums, and making 
me sign papers in return, and never let me know how 
much I owed him; he made me mortgage my land to him; 
he encouraged me to drink, and to neglect my farm. At 
last, when I was head over ears in debt, he suddenly 
brought down the law upon me, foreclosed, and took my 
land. That was the reason of our quarrel. I stayed about 
the place, sometimes at Ohallacombe, sometimes at More- 
ton, and sometimes at Bovey, till my money was nearly all 
gone. Then I must either starve, or I must become a 
laborer where I had been a master, or I must go away and 
lind work somewhere else. I had but thirty pounds left in 
the world, and I made .up my mind to go away. It was a 
day in October of the year 1880, which I remember be- 
cause it was the cold, wet season of 1879 which finished my 
ruin, as it did many others, who that year came to the end 
of their capital or their' credit. I went to see my uncle, 
and begged him to lend me thirty pounds more to start me 
in Canada, where I^d heard say that fifty pounds will start 
a man who is willing to make his own clearance and to work. 
I was that sick of myself that I was willing to work like a 
negro slave if I could work on my own land. But work in 
England on another man^s land I could not. Said my uncle— 
I shall not forget his words — ‘ Nephew David,^ he said, grin- 
ning, ‘ you\e been a fool and lost your money. I^ve been 
a wise man and kept mine. Do you think I am going to 
give you more money to fool awayr^ I wonder I did not 
kill him then and there, because it was through him and 
his lendings that I came so low. He sat in his room at 
Gratnor, his account-books before him, and he looked iq) 
and laughed at me while he said it, jingling the money 
that was in his pocket. Yet I asked him for nothing but 
the loan of thirty pounds, which I might pay back, or per- 
haps I mightiiT. Thirty pounds! And I was his nephew, 
and by his arts and practices heM jockeyed me out of a 
farm of three hundred acres, most of it good land, with 
the brook running through it and a mill upon it. What 
was thirty pounds compared with what heM got out of me? 

“ I remember very well what I said to him — never mind 
what it was — but I warrant he laughed no longer, though 
he kept up his bullying to the end, and told me to go to 
the devil my own way, and the further from my native par- 


*10 CALL HER MIHE. 


11 


ish the better. So I left him, and walked away through 
Watercourt to John Exon^s Inn, where I sat all that day 
drinking brandy and water. I told nobody what had hap- 
pened, but they guessed very well that Fd had a quarrel 
with my uncle, and all the world knew by that time how 
he^d got my land into his own possession. 

“ About six o'clock in the evening Harry Eabjahns, the 
blacksmith, came to the inn, and Grandfather Derges with 
him, and they had a mug of cider apiece. And then, being 
more than a bit in liquor, but not so far gone as not to know 
what I was saying, I began to talk to them about my own 
affairs. I told them nothing about the quarrel with my 
uncle, but I said, what was quite true, that I had no 
stomach to stay and take laborer's wages in the parish 
where I should see all day long the land that had been 
mine and my father’s before me, and his father's, further 
back than the church registry goes. Why, the Sidcotes 
and the Leighans came to Ohallacombe together — the Sid- 
cotes to Sidcote Farm, and the Leighans to Berry Down— • 
as everybody knows, when it was nothing but hill-side and 
forest, with never a house or a field or a church or any- 
thing upon it. Therefore I said I should go away, and it 
was my purpose to go away that very evening. I should 
walk to Bovey Tracey, I said; I should take the train to 
Newton-Abbot, and so to Bristol, where I should find a 
ship bound for foreign parts. That was what I said, and 
perhaps it was lucky I said so much. But 1 don't know, 
because the verdict of the jury I never heard. 

“ ‘ Well, Mr. David,' says Harry, the blacksmith, you ve 
been an unlucky one, sir, and we wish you better luck 
where you be going — wherever that may be. And so said 
Grandfather Derges. And Mrs. Exon must pour out a 
last glass of brandy and water, which I took, though I d 
had more than enough already. Then we shook hands and 

I came away. , i ij. 

“ 'Twas then about eight, and there was a hali-moon, 
the night being fine and breezy, and fiying clouds in the 
sky. As I crossed the green the thought came into my 
head that I was a fool to go to Bristol when Plymouth and 
Falmouth were nearer and would suit my purpose better. 
I could walk to Plymouth easy, and so save the railway 
money. Therefore I resolved to change my plan, and in- 
stead of turning to the left by Farmer Cummings s, I 


12 


TO CALL HEE MiNfi. 


turned to the right at Ivy Cottage, and walked across the 
church-yard, and took the road which goes over Heyfcree 
Down to Widdicombe, and then leads to Ashburton and 
Totnes. ‘ 

‘‘ It was only a chance, mark you, that I took that road; 
only a chance. I did not know, and I did not suspect, 
that my uncle had ridden over to Ashburton after I left 
him. All a chance it was. I never thought to meet him; 
and he might have been living till now if it hadn^t been for 
that chance. 

The man who was listening groaned aloud at this point. 

“ The first two miles of the road is a narrow lane be- 
tween high hedges. What with the brandy I had taken 
and the memory of the morning quarrel, I was in as bad a 
temper as a man need to be, which was the reason why the 
devil took possession of me. 

“ Presently I passed through Heytree Gate, and so out 
where the road runs over the open down, and here I began 
to think — the devil getting in at my head — what I would 
do if I had my uncle before me; and the blood came into 
my eyes, and I clutched the cudgel hard. Who do you 
think put that thought into my head? The devil. Why 
did he put that thought into my head? Because the very 
man was riding along the road on his way home from Ash- 
burton, and because I was going to meet him in about ten 
minutes.-’^ 

Why,^ asked the German, looking up from the paper 
— “ why is it that criminals and ignorant people cling so 
fondly to their devil ?^^ 

As nobody replied, he went on reading: 

‘‘ I heard the footsteps of his pony a long way off. I 
was in the middle of the open road when I heard him 
open Hewed-stone Gate with his hunting-crop and clatter 
through. I saw him coming along in the moonlight. 
While he was still a good way off, before I could see his 
face, I knew who it was by the shape of his shoulders and 
the way he bent over the pony as he rode. Then I saw his 
face, and I stood still by the side of the road and waited for 
him. ‘Murder him! Murder him T whispered a voice in 
my ear. Whose voice was that? The deviPs voice. 

“My stick was a thick heavy cudgel with a knob. I 
grasped it by the end and waited. 

“ He did not see me. He was looking straight before 


To CALL HER MINE. 

him, thinking, I suppose, how he had done well to get his 
nephew out of the way — the nephew he had robbed and 
ruined. So, as he came up to me, I lifted my arm .and 
struck him on the head once, crying, ‘ Give me back my 
land, villain!^ But I do not know whether he heard me or 
saw me; for he fell to the ground without a word or a 
groan. 

‘ ‘ He fell, I say, from his pony clean on to the ground, 
his feet slipping from the stirrups. And there he lay, on 
the broad of his back — dead. 

“ He was quite dead. His face was white and his heart 
had ceased to beat. I stood beside him for an hour, wait- 
ing to see if he would recover. I hoped he would, because 
it is a dreadful thing to think that you have murdered a 
man, even when you are still hot with rage. If he would 
only recover a little and sit up, 1 thought, I should be a 
happy man. 

“ But he did not. He lay quite still and cold. 

“ Then I began to think that if I were caught I should 
be hanged. Would they suspect me? Fortunately, no one 
had seen me take that road. I was certain of that, so far, 
and they thought I had. gone to Bovey. I must go away 
as quickly as 1 could, and leave no trace or sign that would 
make them suspect me. 

Then I thought that if I were to rob him, people w«uld 
be less inclined to think of me; because, though I might 
murder the man who had ruined me, they would never be- 
lieve that I would rob him. 

‘‘ I felt in his pockets. There was his watch; no, I 
would not touch his watch. There was some loose silver, 
which I left. There was a bag containing money. I know 
not how much, but it was a light bag. This I took. Also 
he had under his arm a good-sized tin box in a blue bag, 
such as lawyers carry. The box I knew would contain his 
papers, and his papers were his money. So I thought I 
would do as much mischief to his property as I could, and 
I took that box. Then I went away, leaving him there 
cold and dead, with his white cheeks and gray hair, and his 
eyes wide open. I felt sick when I looked at those eyes, 
because they reproached me. I reeled and staggered as I 
left him, carrying the box with me in its blue bag, and the 
little bag of money. 

‘‘ I was not going to walk along the road. That would 


TO CALL HEIi irtKii. 


14 

have been a foohs act. I turned straight off and struck 
for the open moor, intending to cross Hamil Down, and so, 
by the way of Post Bridge, make for Tavistock and Ply- 
mouth And I remembered a place where the box could 
be hidden away, a safe place, where no one would ever 
think of looking for it, so that everybody should go on be- 
lieving that the old man had been robbed as well as mur- 
dered. This place was right over the down, and on the 
other side, but it was all on my way to Post Bridge. 

“ I climbed the hill then and walked across the top of 
Hamil Down. On the way I passed the Gray Wether 
Stone, and I thought I would hide the bag of money in a 
hole I knew of at the foot of it. Nobody would look for it 
there. Not twenty people in a year ever go near the Gray 
Wether. Then I walked down the hill on the other side 
and got to Grimspound, where I meant to hide the other 
bag with the box in it. 

“ Tell them, if you ever get away from this awful place, 
that the box lies on the side nearest Hamil, where three 
stones piled one above the other make a sort of little cave, 
where you might think to draw a badger, but which would 
never make any one suspect a hiding-place. The stones 
are in the corner, and are the first you come to on your 
way down. There I put the box, and then I walked away 
past Vitifer to Post Bridge, and then along the high-road 
to Two Bridges and Tavistock. But I did not stop in 
Tavistock. Perhaps there would be an alarm. So I went 
on walking all the way without stopping — except to sit 
down a bit — to Plymouth. There I got a newspaper, but 
I could read nothing of the murder. Then I took the train 
to Falmouth, and waited there for three days, and bought 
a newspaper everyday — one would surely think that a mur- 
der in a quiet country place would be reported — but I could 
not find a single word about my murder. 

“ Then I was able to take passage on board a German 
ship bound for New York. I got to New- York, and 1 
stayed there till my money was all gone, which did not take 
long. There I made the acquaintance of some men, who 
told me to go with them, for they were going west. They 
were all, I found, men who had done something, and the 
police were anxious to take them. I never told them what 
I had done, but they knew it was something, and when they 
found out that I knew nothing about robbery and burglary. 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


15 


and couldn^t cheat at gambling and the like, they set it 
down that it must be murder. But they cared nothing, 
and I went along with them.^^ 

Your confession, my friend,^ ^ said the German, stop- 
ping at this point, “ of what followed — the horse-stealing 
adventure, your own escape, and the untimely end of your 
companions; your honesty in California, and its interrup- 
tion; your career as a bonnet or confederate; and your ex- 
perience of a Californian prison — is all interesting, but I 
can not waste paper upon it. I return, therefore, to the 
material part of the confession. And with this I conclude. 

“ 1 desire to state that from the first night that I arrived 
in New York till now I have every night been visited by 
the ghost of the man I killed. My uncle stands beside the 
bed, whether it is in a bed in a crowded room, or on the 
ground in the open, or in a cabin at sea, or on the deck, 
whether I am drunk or sober, he always comes every night. 
His face is white, and the wound in his forehead is bleed- 
ing. ‘ Come back to England,^ he says, ‘ and confess the 
crime. ^ 

‘‘ I must go back, and give myself up to justice. I will 
make no more struggles against my fate. But because I 
am uncertain whether I shall live to get back, and because 
I know not how to escape from this island, I wish to have 
my confession written and signed, so that if I die the truth 
may be told.^^ 

Thus ended the paper. 

“ So,-"^ said the big German, ^‘you acknowledge this to 
be your full and true confession?^ 

“Ido.^" 

“ Sign it, then.^^ He produced from his bag a pencil 
and gave it to the man, who signed, in a trembling hand, 
“David Leighan.^^ Under the signature the German 
wrote, “Witnessed by me, Baron Sergius von Holsten.^^ 
This done, he replaced the note-book in his wallet. 

“ The reason why I wanted you to sign the paper to- 
night,^^ he said, “ is that there seems as if there might be 
a chance of your getting away from the island.-’^ 

“ How?’^ 

“ Look out to sea. 

They were almost at the extreme south point of the island 
— the maps call it Cape St. George, but what the islanders 


16 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


call it has not yet been ascertained. In the west the shores 
of New Britain could be seen, because the sun was just 
sinking behind them^ to the south and the east there was 
open sea. 

“ I can see nothing. 

Look through my glass, then.^^ 

‘‘ I can see a ship — a two-masted sailing ship.'^^ 

“ She is in quest of blackbirds. She will probably send 
a boat ashore. Fortunately for you, the people are all 
gone off to fight. You will, therefore, if she does send a 
boat here, have a chance of getting away. If she sails 
north, and sends a boat ashore fifty miles or so further up 
the coast, that boat^s crew will be speared, and you will 
probably see portions of their arms and legs for some little 
time to come in the huts. Well, my friend — for the man 
shuddered and trembled — “ better their arms and legs than 
your own. Yet, see the strange decrees of fate. The 
men in the boat are very likely no worse than their neigh- 
bors. That is to say, they will have done nothing worse 
than the smaller sins freely forgiven by every tolerant per- 
son. They have drunk, fought, sworn, lied, and so forth. 
But they have not committed murder. Yet they will be 
speared; while you, thanks to my protection, have hitherto 
escaped, and may possibly get clean off the island. Yet 
consider what a sinner — what a sinner and a criminal — ^you 
have been. Now, my friend, the sun is about to set. In 
ten minutes it will be dark, and we have neither candles 
nor matches. Go to your bed and await the further com- 
mands of the Herr Ghost, your respectable uncle. On the 
eve of your departure, if you are to go to-morrow, he will 
probably be more peremptory and more terrifying than 
usual. Do not groan more loudly than you can help, be- 
cause groans disturb neighbors. Such is the abominable 
selfishness of the repentant, that their remorse is as great 
a nuisance to their companions as their crime was an an- 
noyance to their nctims. Go to bed, David, and await the 
Herr Ghost. " 


CHAPTER II. 

A JONAH COME ABOARD. 

“ Then you think,^^ said the mate, looking about him 
with doubt, “ that we shall do no business here.’^^ 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


17 


He was a young fellow of two-and-twenty or so, a frank 
and honest-looking sailor, though his business was that of 
a cunning kidnapper. Perhaps he had not been long 
enough at it for the profession to get itself stamped upon 
his forehead. He was armed with a revolver, ready to 
hand, and a cutlass hanging at his side. Behind him were 
four sailors, also armed, in readiness for an attack, for 
Polynesians are treacherous; and in the boat, pulled as 
near the shore as the shallow water allowed, were two more 
men, oars out and in their hands, guns at their side, ready 
to shove off in a moment. But there were no islanders in 
sight, only these two Europeans— one a tall man of nearly 
seven feet, dressed in fantastic imitation of the natives; 
and the other, apparently, an ordinary beach-comber, quite 
out of luck, ragged, dejected, and haggard. A little way 
off the land lay the schooner. Her business was to enlist, 
kidnap, procure, or secure, by any means in the power of 
the captain and the crew, as many natives as the ship would 
hold, and to bring them to North Queensland, where they 
would be hired out to the planters, exactly as the redemp- 
tioners were hired out, in the last century, in Maryland 
and Virginia, to work out their term of service, and, also 
exactly like the redemptioners, to find that term indefinitely 
prolonged by reason of debt for tobacco, clothes, rum, and 
all kinds of things. They would be privileged to cultivate 
sugar, coffee, and other tropical productions, and to wit- 
ness, a long way off, the choicest blessings of civilization; 
they would also be allowed to cheer their souls with the 
hope of some day returning to their native islands, where 
these blessings have not yet penetrated, and where they 
would have to Mve out the remainder of their days in sav- 
agery of that deplorable kind which enjoys perpetual sun- 
shine and warmth, with plenty to eat, nothing to wear, and 
nothing to do. Warmth, food, and rest — for these as a 
bribe, what would not our people resign of their blessings? 
The clothes they wear? Well, it would be a good exchange 
indeed from their insufficient and ragged clothes in a cold 
climate to none at all in a place where none are wanted. 
To exchange the food they eat for the food of the South Sea 
Islander? Well — apart from roasted brother — it woufd 
certainly seem, at first, a change for the better. To ex- 
change work — hard, horrible, unceasing work — for rest? 
AVho would not? — oh! who would not? Free institutions 


18 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


and socialist clubs for a country with no institutions at all? 
Why^ why is there not an extensive emigration of the Indo- 
lent, the Unlucky, and the Out-of-Work for these Fortun- 
ate Islands? 

“It is an unlucky voyage,^ ^ said the mate, gazing ear- 
nestly at the two men before him, whose appearance and 
the contrast between them puzzled him. “Two months 
out and five weeks becalmed; no business done, and the 
skipper drunk all day long. Say, how did you come here?^^ 

“ For my part,'’^ said the German, “ I am a naturalist. 
I make the coleoptera my special study. I have, I believe, 
enriched science with so many rare and j^reviously unknown 
specimens, if I succeed in getting them to Europe, that my 
name will be certainly remembered in scientific history as 
one of those who have advanced knowledge. Can any man 
ask morer^^ 

“Colly! — colly whatr^^ asked the mate. “But never 
mind your Colly-what^s-her-name. How the devil did you 
get such a rig, man?^’ 

“ I am a linguist,^ ^ the Baron Sergius von Holsten went 
on to explain, “ as well as a naturalist. I therefore learned 
the language before landing here, having found a native or 
two of New Ireland in the mission of the Duke of York 
Island. It is a great thing to know how to talk with these 
black children. I am also a surgeon and a physician, so 
that I can heal their wounds and their diseases when they 
get any. You see, further, that I am bigger than most 
men. I am also thorough. I adopted their dress, at least 
some of it — he looked complacently at his toga of tapu- 
cloth — “ and therefore being able to talk to them, to im- 
press them with my stature, and to cure them, I landed 
among them without fear. When they came round me with 
their spears I shouted to them that I was a great magician, 
come to their help straight down from the sun. And as I 
know a little prestidigitation and conjuring, and am a bit 
of a ventriloquist, I am from time to time able to work a 
few of the simpler miracles; so that they readily believe 
me.^^ 

How long are you going to stay here?^^ 

’“ I know not; New Ireland is rich in new species; but I 
shall have to stop as soon as my means of collection and 
description come to an end. When that day comes I shall 
be glad to see a ship. But it will not be yet.^^ 


TO CALL HER MINIJ. 


19 


‘‘ They may kill you. 

“ It is possible the baron shrugged his tall shoulders. 
“ They are like little children. It may occur to one of 
them some day to find out what I should do and how I 
should look if he were to drive his spear into my back. We 
all run our little dangers, and must not allow them to stop 
our work. 

The mate looked doubtful. 

“ I am also an ethnologist, and I assure you, lieutenant, 
that the study of these people is of profound interest.'’^ 

“ Have you no arms?^^ 

I have a revolver; but what is one revolver against the 
spears of a whole people? I have really no other weapon 
but my power of persuasion and my reputation for magic 
and sorcery. These will not fail me, unless, as I said be- 
fore, one of them may be anxious to see how a god behaves 
and how he looks with a spear stuck through him.^^ 

“ And how do you live?^^ 

“ The people bring me food every day. If they did not, 
I should afflict them with horrible misfortunes, as they 
very well know. I should tell them that in three days such 
a one would be dead, and then it would be that man’s duty 
to go away and die in fulfilment of prophecy. I suppose 
his friends would never speak to him again if he refused to 
fulfill the words of the prophet, so great is their faith. 
They bring me the unripe cocoanut for its milk; there are 
fish of every kind in the sea, which they net and spear for 
me; there are kangaroo and cassowary on the hills, which 
they snare and trap for me; there are birds which they 
shoot for me; there are mangoes, bread-fruit, bananas, 
yams, sweet-potatoes, and taro. I assure you we feed very 
Wll. Don’t we, David?” He laid his hand on the other 
man’s shoulder. “We have also tobacco. There is, how- 
ever — which you regret, David, don’t you? — no rum on the 
island. ” 

“Is your — your — chum also worshiped?” asked the 
mate, regarding David with an obvious decrease of interest. 

“ i^o; David is recognized as of inferior clay. This poor 
fellow was wrecked upon the island; he came ashore on a 
l^lank, the rest of the ship’s crew and passengers having 
given indigestion to the sharks. He is not happy here, 
and he would like you to take him off the island.” 

“ Yes,” said David, eagerly, but still in his slow way. 


I’O CALL HER JVTIKE. 


SO 

anywhere, so that I can only get on my way to Eng- 
land/^ 

“ He was just getting off his plank, and the people were 
preparing to receive nim joyfully, warmly, and hospitably, 
after their fashion; that is to say, into their pots — they 
have a beautiful method of cooking, in a kind of sunken 
pot, which would greatly interest you if you were a captive 
and expecting your turn — when I fortunately arrived, and 
succeeded, by promising an eclipse if I was disobeyed, in 
saving him. The eclipse came in good time; but I had 
forgiven the people for their momentary mutiny, and I 
averted its power for evil. So long as David sticks close to 
me now he is safe. If he leaves me, his end is certain. 
But he is no use to me, and for certain reasons I should 
very much prefer that he was gone. Will you take him?^^ 

“ The ship doesiiT carry passengers, said the mate: 
“ besides — 

“ He is harmless, and you can trust him not to make 
mischief. I will pay for him if you like. 

“ What does he want to go home for?^^ asked the mate, 
doubtfully. Indeed, the appearance of the man did not 
warrant the belief that he would bo welcomed by his 
friends. 

“ He has to pay a pilgrimage; he has to deliver a mes- 
sage before a magistrate, and to be subsequently elevated 
to a post of great distinction,^^ said the baron. 

Humph said the mate. “ He looks as if heM done 
something. Better keep in these latitudes, stranger, where 
no one asks and no one cares. But about his fare: who’s 
to pay for his passage and his grub, if we take him:” 

‘ You will retdrn some time to Queensland. Take or 
send this note.” He took his note-book, tore off half a 
leaf, and wrote a few words upon it. “ Send this note to 
Messrs. Hengstenburg & Company, Sydney. Tell them 
where you got it, and they will give you £20 for it, and 
will thank you into the bargain for letting them know that, 
so far, the Baron Sergius von Holsten is safe. If there is 
any money left after paying for your passenger, give it to 
this poor devil. He is not such a bad devil, though he looks 
so miserable, unless he begins to confide in you. When he 
does that, lock him up in a cabin. Perhaps he has done 
something, as you say; what do we kpow? As for doing 
things,” he said, regarding his humble companion with the 


^0 Call her mike. 

utmost severity, “ a man who is tempted to commit a crime 
ought always to remember that he will some day, in all 
probability, be wrecked on a desert island, an island of 
cannibals, in the company of one, and only one, oth ex- 
European, and that man greatly his superior; and he 
ought truly to resolve that under no temptations will he do 
anything which may make him a nuisance and a bore to 
that companion through the vehemence of his repentance. 
David Leighan groaned. “ Man/^ added the baron, sen- 
tentiously, “does not live for himself alone; and he who 
rashly commits a crime may hereafter seriously interfere 
with the comfort of his brother man. David hung his 
head. “ I forgive you, David. I have protected you from 
the natives^ spears and their pots and carving-knives for 
six months, though it has cost me many foolish threats and 
vain curses. I have fed you and sheltered you. I have 
been rewarded by penitential gi’oans and by outward tokens 
of fervent contrition. These have saddened my days, and 
have disturbed my slumbers. Groan henceforth into other 
ears. I forgive you, however, only on one condition, that 
you return no more. If you do, you shall be speared and 
potted without remorse. As for the document in my note- 
book— 

“ I shall get to England before you,^^ said David; “ and 
when I get there I shall go at once to Challacombe or 
Moreton, and make a statement just like the one you have 
in your note-book. By the time you come to England I 
shall be— 

“ Exactly,^^ said the bai*on, smiling sweetly. “ You 
will have been a public character. Well, to each man 
comes somehow his chance of greatness. I hope you may 
enjoy your reputation, David, though it may be short-lived. 

The mate meantime was considering the note put into 
his hands. It was very short, and was a simple draft upon 
a merchant's house in Sydney — the shortest draft, I sup- 
pose, ever written, and on the smallest piece of paper. 

“Messrs. Hengstenburg & Co., Sydney. Pay bearer 
£20. ISIew Ireland. 1884. Bai'on Sergius von Holsten. 

“I will take him,^^ said the mate. “The captain is 
always drunk, so it is no use waiting to ask him. Most- 
likely he will never know. I expect to be out another three 
or four months. He can come aboard with me. But, 
stranger,^^ he said, persuasively, “ can no business be 


!rO CALL HER MIKE. 


done? Are they open to reason? He looked round at 
the forest and deserted huts. “ Can we trade for a few 
natives, you and me, between us? Lord! if I could only 
see my way to persuade ^em to worship me, I^d — blessed if 
I wouldn^tl— I would ship the whole island. There would 
be a fortune in it.jj 

“ They are open to no reason at all. In fact, if they 
were at this moment — nothing is more probable — to come 
down upon us unexpectedly, it would be a painful necessity 
for me — if I valued my reputation as a prophet — to order 
them to attack and spear both you and your crew; other- 
wise I should be considered a false prophet, and should pay 
the penalty in being myself speared, and put into these 
curious large sunken pots in which one lies so snug and 
warm. They are a blood-thirsty, ferocious race. In their 
cookery they are curious, as I have already informed you. 
(They are wonderfully handy with their lances, and they 
^move in large bodies. Those pop-guns of yours would 
knock over two or three, but would be of no avail to save 
your own lives. Therefore, I would advise that you get 
into your boat and aboard your ship with as little delay as 
possible. 

The mate took his advice, and departed with his passen- 
ger. 

‘‘And now,” said the Baron Sergius, “ I am alone at 
last, and can enjoy myself without any of that fellow^s 
groans. I never knew before how extremely disagreeable 
one single murder may make a man."’"' 

That evening the rescued man, David Leighan, sat on 
the deck with his friend the mate. They had a bottle of 
rum between them and a pannikin apiece. The island of 
Hew Ireland was now a black patch low down on the hoi'i- 
zon, the night was clear, and the sky full of stars; there 
was a steady breeze, and the schooner was making her way 
easily and gently across the smooth water. David was off 
the island at last, and once more free to return to England; 
yet he did not look happier; on the contrary, the gloom 
upon his face was blacker than ever. 

“ The skipper,^’ said the mate, “ is drunk again. lie's 
been drunk since we sailed out of port. Don't you never 
ship with a skipper that is drunk all day long. Once in a 
way — say of a Saturday night, when a man may expect it 
— there's no harm done; and not much when the fit takes 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


^3 


him now and then in an uncertain way, though it may put 
the men about more than a bit Whereas, you see, the 
captain has got the owners' private instructions — those 
which they don't write down. He knows how far he may 
go with the natives, and where he's to draw the line. So 
that if he's always drunk, what is the mate to do? Either 
he may take the ship home again and report his own cap- 
tain, in which case he makes enemies for life, and may 
never get a berth again, or he may fill his ship with goods 
in the easiest way they can be got, which I needn't tell 
you, mate, is a rough way. And when he gets back to port, 
what is to prevent some of his men from rounding on that, 
mate? Then all the blame fails on him, and he is prose- 
cuted, because it will be shown on evidence that the cap- 
tain was drunk all the time. Either way, therefore, the 
mate gets the worst of it. Sometimes I think it would be 
best for him to join the captain. Then the command would 
devolve upon the bo's'n, and how he'd get his goods every- 
body knows." 

The officer was loquacious, and talked on about his trade 
and its difficulties, not at first observing that his compan- 
ion took no interest in it. 

“Seems as if you're sorry you've left the island," he 
said, presently, remarking a certain absence of sympathy. 

“ I wish I had stayed there," said David, with a groan. 
“ There at least I was safe, except for the— the Thing at 
night; whereas if I get back to England, supposing I ever 
do — " Here he stopped. 

“ If you've done something, man, what the devil do you 
want to go back to England for?" 

“ Because I must. There's ropes pulling me back, and 
yet there's something that always stops me. I was going 
home from Brisbane, but the ship was wrecked. That is 
how I got on New Ireland. Before that I was traveling 
down to Melbourne to get a passage from there, but the 
train was smashed, and I had three months in hospital and 
spent all mv money. I dare say something will happen to 
this ship. She'll run on a rock, or capsize, or something." 

The mate made no reply for a little. He was supersti- 
tious, like all sailors. Just then the drunken captain be- 
gan to sing at the top of his voice. It was a sound of ill 
omen. The mate shuddered, and took another sip of the 
rum. 


24 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


‘‘ Man/" he said, ‘‘ I don"t like it. If the crew had 
heard them words they"d have had you overboard in a min- 
ute. Don"t tell me they wouldn"t, because they would, 
and think nothing of it. This is a voyage where we want 
all the luck we can get; not to have our honest endeavors 
thwarted by such an unlucky devil as yourself. Well, I 
won"t tell them. But keep a quiet tongue in your head. 
And now go below and turn in."" 

Later on, the mate was able to turn in for an hour, llis 
passenger was sitting up in bed remonstrating with some 
invisible person. 

“ I am going home,"" he said, “ as fast as I can go. 
Leave me in peace. I am going home, and I will confess 
everything."" 

The mate asked him what he was doing, but received no 
answer, for the man had fallen back upon the pillow and 
was fast asleep. He had been talking in his sleep. 

“ I"ll put him ashore,"" said the mate, “ at the first land 
we make where he won"t be eaten by cannibals. I believe 
he"s committed a murder."" 

The next day, and the next, and for many days, the 
vessel sailed among the islands of the Southern seas. But 
David grew daily more miserable and more despondent; 
his face looked more haggard, and his eyes became more 
hollow. Ho was dismal when sober, and despairing when 
drunk. The mate left him now altogether alone, and none 
of the ship"s company, who regarded him with doubtful if 
not unfriendly eyes, spoke to him. So that he was able to 
revel in the luxury of repentance, and to taste beforehand, 
in imagination, the pleasures of the atonement which 
awaited him. 

It proved a most unlucky voyage. They lost two men 
in an encounter with the natives; they had no success in 
trading; the captain continued to drink, and the mate 
wished devoutly that the cruise was finished, and the ship 
back in port, if only to have done with a voyage which he 
foresaw would continue as it had begun. 

The end came unexpectedly. 

One night the watch on deck were startled by a bright 
light in the captain"s cabin. The light shot into a flame, 
and the flame leaped and ran along the sides of the cabin 
and caught in the deck and licked the timbers of the ship. 
The old schooner was as dry as tinder, and caught fire like 


i’O CALL HEB mike. 


a piece of paper. In five minutes it became apparent that 
.they must take to their boats. This they did, having just 
time to put in a little water and sojne provisions. As to 
the drunken man who had done the mischief, he came out 
of the burning cabin and danced and sung until the flames 
dragged him down. 

In the fierce glare of the burning ship the mate looked at 
David reproachfully, implying that this misfortune was en- 
tirely due to his presence. ■ 

“ Even now,^^ he whispered, “ I will not tell the men 
you have ruined the voyage, burned the ship, killed the 
captain, and may be will kill us as well. What have you 
done that we should be punished like this for taking you 
on board? Is it — is it murder ?^^ 

David nodded his head gloomily. 

“ Then,^^ said the mate, whatever happens to us, 
youTl get safe ashore. You wonT be drowned, and you 
wonT be starved."’^ 

Three weeks later there were only two survivors in that 
boat. The other men had all drunk sea-water, and so 
gone mad one after the other, and leaped overboard in their 
delirium. Only David Leighan was left with the mate, and 
they were lying one in the bow and one in the stern, as 
far apart as tjie boat would allow, and they were black in 
the face, gaunt, and hollow-eyed. 

When they were picked up, the signs of life were so faint 
in them that the skipper, a humane person, took counsel 
with his mate whether it would not save the poor men 
trouble to drop them into the water at once. But in the end, 
as there was just the least and faintest pulse possible, he 
hoisted them aboard and laid them on the deck, with their 
heads propped up. Then, the ship having, no doctor 
aboard, he began to administer whisky and rum in alter- 
nate spoonfuls, so that the dying men got so drunk that 
they could no longer die with any dignity. They therefore 
recovered, and sat up, gazing about them with rolling 
heads and vacuous eyes. Then they fell back, and went 
sound asleep for six hours. At the end of this time the 
misery of the long fasting began again with pangs intolera- 
ble. But the captain rose to the occasion. Pea-soup, also 
exhibited in spoonfuls, proved a specific. Next day they 
had boiled pork; and the day after, sea-pie. Now the man 


26 


iO CALL HER MIKE. 


who can eat sea-pie can eat anything. The two survivors 
of the unlucky schooner were once more well and hearty. 

For the rest of th^ voyage the rescued mate kept aloof 
from the rescued passenger. He would not speak to him; 
he avoided that part of the ship where he happened to be. 
As for the latter, he found a place abaft near the helm, 
where he could sit upon a coil of rope, his head upon his 
knees. And there he remained, gloomy and silent. 

There was trouble, too. First, the ship sprung a leak, 
and the pumps had to be worked. Next, there was a bad 
storm, and the mizzen-mast went by the board. Thirdly, 
a fire broke out, and was subdued with difficulty. How- 
ever, the ship at last sighted land, and arrived, battered 
and shattered, at the port of Sydne 3 ^ 

When they landed, and not till then, the rescued mate 
spoke his mind. 

First li3 went to the house of Hengstenburg & Co., 
where he presented the baron’s draft, gave news of his 
safety, and touched the money. He then led his passenger 
to a drinking saloon, and entered into a serious conversation 
with him. 

“ As for this money,” he said, “ you wern’t a passenger 
more than a few days, and I can’t rightly charge you 
much. Take fifteen, and I’ll take five. With fifteen 
pounds you can get home, which I take to be your desire, 
and give yourself up, which I take to be your duty.” It 
will be understood that the unfortunate David, in the ex- 
tremity of his starvation and remorse, had been talking. 

“A Providence it is,” said the mate, that where so 
many honest fellows were took, I was spared, else you 
would never have had this money, and you wouldn’t there- 
fore have been able to give yourself up, and you would 
never have been hung. A clear Providence it is, ^nd you 
must regard it as such, and remember it when they take 
you out comfortably with the chaplain and the rope. ” 

David took the money, rolled it up in a rag, and placed 
it in his pocket, but said nothing. 

“I don’t Iwant,” continued the mate, “ to hurt your 
feelings, but if you could go home on a raft by yourself, or, 
being a Jonah — ” 

“ What is a Jonah?” 

“ — Being a Jonah in a whale’s belly, it would be kind 
and considerate, and might save many valuable lives. As 


TO CALL HEE MINE. 


27 ■ 

for me, I don’t mind owning up that if I was to find my- 
self aboard with you again, after all I’ve gone through, and 
you carrying about wherever you go an infernal invisible 
ghost, and talking and confessing to him every night — I 
say, if I was to find myself aboard with you again, I’d get 
into the dingy and row ashore by myself; I would, if it was 
in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.” 

David groaned. 

Then the mate moralized upon the situation. Strange 
to say, he took something of the line previously taken by 
Baron Sergius. 

“ One fine ship wrecked, and all her crew, for aught I 
know, cast away; another tight schooner burned, and the 
captain and all the crew killed, except you and me; and a 
third ship half-burned, and brought water-logged into port 
— and all along of you! Blow me! if you’d knifed a bishop 
there couldn’t have been more fuss made. I won’t re- 
proach you, my lad, because you’ve got your ghost to do 
that every night, and because you’ve got to face the racket 
of the chaplain and the rope and the long drop; but con- 
sidering the mischief you’ve done, I wish to put it to you 
that what you’ve done was a beastly and a selfish thing to 
do.” 


CHAPTER III. 

THE EIKST DKEAM. 

At half past four exactly Mr. Leighan, of Gratnoi% com- 
monly called Daniel Leighan, or Old Dan, or Mr. Daniel, 
according to the social position of those who spoke of him, 
awoke with a start from his afternoon nap. Mr. Leighan 
always took his dinner at one; after his dinner he took a 
tumbler of brandy and water, hot, with two lumps of sugar 
and a slice of lemon— as his grandfather had done before 
him, only that the ancestral drink was rum, and the brew 
was called ‘‘ punch.” With the glass of brandy and water 
he took a pipe of tobacco. This brought him, regularly 
and exactly, to half past two. He then knocked out the 
ashes, laid down his pipe, pulled his silk handkerchief over 
his head— which kept off the draught in winter and flies in 
summer — and went to sleep till half past f oui , when he 
woke up and had his tea. This was his way of spending 
the afternoon. He had never varied that way, even when 


28 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


he was a young man and active; and now he would never 
attempt to vary it, for he was old and paralyzed; and he 
passed his days wholly sitting in a high-backed arm-chair, 
with pillows and cushions at the back and sides, and a stool 
for his feet. From eight in the morning until nine in the 
evening he lived in that chair and in that room. There 
was always a wood-fire burning in the grate, even on such 
a hot summer day as this; for Ohallacombe is a thousand 
feet above the level of the sea, and the clouds roll up the 
valleys of the Teign and the Bovey from the sea, or they 
roll down from the Tors and the Downs and envelop it, so 
that half the year one lives in cloud. This makes it a damp 
and trying air, so that the domestic hearth at Ohallacombe 
is like the altar of Vesta, being never quenched, even in 
July and August. 

Old Dan — we all belong, I am sure, to the upper cir- 
cles, and can therefore permit ourselves this familiarity^ — • 
was now white-haired, and advanced in years, but not so 
old as he looked by a good many years. His locks were 
long, but, though certainly impressive, they did not, as in 
another and a famous historical case, cause him therefore 
to look benevolent. Perhaps this was because he wore a 
black skull-cap — a thing which, like a beretta, generally 
causes its wearer to appear bereft of all charity, meekness, 
tenderness, and brotherly love. A black skull-cap is even 
said to have a really malignant influence as regards these 
virtues. Perhaps, however, no artifice or invention of sci- 
ence could make that face look benevolent. In youth, be- 
fore its features were sharpened and stiffened, it must have 
been a singularly handsome and striking face. It was now 
a masterful and self-willed face. The nose was long and 
hooked, the forehead high and narrow, the chin sharp, and 
the mouth square; any one of these points may indicate 
self-will, but taken all together, they bawl it aloud. If his 
eyes were open, as they will be in a moment, you would 
say that they must have been beautiful in youth, when 
their bright blue was set off by the brown hair; now, after 
seventy years of greed and avarice, they were hard and 
keen, but as bright as ever — even brighter than in youth, 
because they were set off by thick white eyebrows like a 
pent-house. Before his affliction fell upon him he was 
taller than the generality of men. Even now, when he sat 
upright in his chair, he produced the same impression of 


TO CALL HEB MINE. 


29 


great height which he had formerly been used to exercise 
when he stood half a foot or so above any man with whom 
he was conversing. Great stature, properly used, is a 
wonderful help to personal influence. Too often, however, 
it is, considered as a means of self-advancement, a gift 
clean thrown away. It was not, in short, a common face 
which one looked at in that chair, nor a common figure. 
Any candid person — that is to say, any man who had never 
had business relations with Mr. Leighan, and might there- 
fore be reasonably free from the vindictiveness and rage 
which blinded the eyes of his tenants, debtors, and depend- 
ents — would allow this to be the face of a man originally 
intended by nature to make a mark in the great world, if he 
should get the chance. He never did get that chance, and 
his abilities had been expended in the interesting and ab- 
sorbing though petty business of overreaching neighbors 
not so clever as himself, extorting the uttermost farthing, 
and adding bit by bit to his property. He was now the 
rich man of a parish in which there was no squire; he was 
the village miser; he was the terror of those who owed him 
money; he was the driver of the hardest bargains; he was 
the strong and masterful man; he was the scourge of the 
weak and thriftless; he was the tyrant of the village. He 
knew all this, and so far from being humiliated, he en- 
joyed the position; he exulted in the consciousness of his 
own unpopularity; he alone in the parish had risen among 
his fellows to the proud distinction of being universally 
detested. Men like Daniel Leighan love the power which 
such a position means; they even think of themselves com- 
placently as wolves lying in ambush to rush upon the un- 
wary, and to rend and devour the feeble. 

The girl who sat working at the open window was his 
niece, Mary Hethercote. That is to say, the work lay in 
her lap, but her hands were idle, and her eyes were far 
away from the sewing. She lived with Daniel, and took 
care of him. He railed at all the world except her; he 
quarreled with all the world except his niece; and those 
persons who averred that he was kind to her because he 
had the keeping of her money and took all the interest for 
himself, and had her services as housekeeper for nothing, 
were perhaps only imperfectly acquainted with the old 
man^s motives and his feelings. Yet the statement was 
true. He did have the keeping of her money — a good Ijimp 


30 


•TO CALL HER MIKE. 


of money; and he did give himself the interest in return 
for her board and lodging; and he did have her services as 
housekeeper for nothing. 

I declare that when one considers such a girl as Mary 
Nethercote, and thinks how helpful she is^, how unselfish, 
how ready at all times to spend and be spent in the service 
of others, how full she is of the old-fashioned learning 
which fills the homestead with the happiness of material 
comfort, how little she thinks about herself, how simple she 
is in her tastes, and yet how sweet and dainty and lovely to 
look upon, one is carried away with gratitude and admira- 
tion. What, one asks at such a moment, is the wisdom of 
Girton and Newnham compared with the wisdom of the 
farmer^s daughter? What, in fact, can the Girton girl 
make? Doth she solace the world and profit her kind by 
her triple integrals? Doth she advance mankind by her 
cherished political economy? Mary, for her part, keeps the 
fowls and ducks; Mary considers the fattening of the geese 
and the welfare of the turkeys; Mary looks after the dairy; 
Mary superintends the baking of the wholesome and sweet 
home-made bread under the red pots; the confecting of 
puddings, pies, tarts, and cakes; the boiling and skimming 
and potting of the most beautiful ja^Jts and jellies; Mary 
conducts the garden, both that of flowers and that of vege- 
tables — there is, in fact, only one garden, and the flowers 
flourish in the borders beside the onions and the pease; 
Mary "directs the brewing of the cider; Mary keeps the 
keys, and gives out the linen; Mary inspects the wash- 
ing and the ironing; in short, Mary openeth her mouth 
with wisdom and looketh well to the ways of her house- 
hold.^^ She is up at five in summer and at six in winter; 
all the morning she is at work with her maids; in the after- 
noon she takes her needle and sews; in the evening she 
plays and sings a little to keep her uncle in good temper, 
and sometimes reads a novel for an hour before she goes to 
bed. This is her life. Sometimes there may be a tea- 
drinking. Sometimes she will mount her pony and ride 
over to Newton- Abbot, to Moreton-Hampstead, or to Ash- 
burton, where the shop-people all know her, and are pleased 
to see her. But mostly from week to week she stays at 
home. As for a summ'er holiday, that a thing which has 
never entered into her mind. The girl-graduate perhaps 
scorns the work of the household; I for my part do not 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


31 


scorn the work of the farmer, whose work 'exactly corre- 
sponds to that of Mary. It seems to me a better and a 
happier life, in and out of house and barn, and linney, and 
dairy, in the open air, warmed by the sun, beaten by every 
wind that blows, breathing the sweet smells of newly turned 
earth, of hedge and ditch, and the wild flowers, than any 
that can be found in the study and at the desk. 

The maids of Devon are, we know, fair to outward view 
as other maidens are, and perhaps fairer than most; though 
in so delicate a matter as beauty comparisons are horrid. 
Some there are with black hair and black eyes. These 
must be descended from the ancient Cornish stock, and are 
cousins of those who stiH speak the Celtic tongue across the 
Channel. But there is talk of the Spanish prisoners who 
had no desire to go home agmn, but settled in Devon and 
Cornwall, and became Protestants, in a land where there 
was no Inquisition. Others there are who have brown hair 
and blue eyes. Mary came of this stock. Her eyes, like 
her uncle^s, were blue; but they were of a deeper blue; and 
they were soft, while his were hard. Her hair was a rich 
warm brown, and there was a lot of it. When all is said, 
can there be a better color for hair and eyes? As for her 
face^ I do not claim, as the Americans sa^q for Mary that 
she was a stately and statuesque beauty; nor had she least 
toucli of style and fashion — how should she have? But for 
sweetness, and the simple beauty of regular features, rosy 
lips, bright eyes, and healthy cheek, lighted up with the 
sunshine of love and truth, and colored with the bloom 
of youth, there are few damsels indeed who can com- 
pare with Mary Hethercote, of Gratnor Farm. As for her 
figure, it was tall and well-proportioned— full of health, 
and yet not buxom. Need one say more? Such was Mary 
in the summer of the year 1886: nay, such she is now, as 
you may see in Challacombe Church, where she still sits in 
her old place with the choir, beside George Sidcote. Many 
things — of which I am the historian — have happened since 
the summer of last year; but Mary^s place in church is not 
changed, nor has the bloom of her beauty left her cheek; 
many things, as you shall learn, with many surprises and 
great changes. Yet methinks her face is happier and more 
full of sunshine now than it was twelve months ago. 

The room in which she sat was low and long; it was an 
old-fashioned wainscoted room, rather dark, because it was 


33 


'TO CALL HER MIKE. 


lighted by oiie window only, and because a great branch of 
white roses was hanging over the window, broken from its 
fastenings by the wind, or by the weight of its flowers. It 
had a south aspect, which in winter made it warm. Its 
chief article of furniture, because it was always in one 
place, and took up so much room, was Mr. Leighan^s arm- 
chair, which stood so that his back was turned to the light. 
This prevented him from looking out of the window, but it 
enabled him to read and write and pore over his papers. 
The best scenery in the eyes of Mr. Leighan was the sight 
of a mortgage or a deed of conveyance. As for the sun- 
shine outside — the flowers, and the view of hill and vale 
and wood — he cared naught for these things. There were, 
besides, two or three ordinary chairs — Mary had never en- 
joyed the luxury of an easy-chair or a sofa — there was a 
small work-table for her ‘‘ things,^ ^ and there was a really 
splendid old cabinet, black with age, wonderfulfwith carv- 
ings, for which Wardour Street would sigh in vain; in 
fact, the reputation of that cabinet had gone abroad, and 
overtures had been made again and again for its purchase. 
And the contents! Your heart would sink with the sick- 
ness of longing only to look upon them. There were old 
brass candlesticks, old silver candlesticks, brass and silver 
snuffers and snuffer-trays; silver cups of every size, from 
the little christening-cup to the great silver whistle-cup 
holding a quart and a half; there were punch-bowls and 
ladles; and there was old china— yea, china which world 
move a collector to sighs and sobs of envy. These things 
represented many generations of Leighans, who had been 
settled in Challacombe since that parish began to exist. It 
is now five hundred years since their ancestors moved up 
from the lowlands to the hill-sides and coombes on the fringe 
of the moor. It was about the time when the Yorkists and 
Lancastrians were chopping and hacking at one another— 
though no report of the battles came up here for many a 
month after the event — that the church was built. Civil 
wars, indeed, never caused any broils at Challacombe. The 
Reformation found the people obedient; Queen Mary 
burned none of them, for they were easily reconverted, and 
Queen Bess found them docile to the royal supremacy. The 
only enthusiasm they were ever known to show was a hun- 
dred years after Queen Besses time, when King Monmouth 
rode across the west country to try his fate at Sedgemoor. 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


One of the younger Leighans, a hot-blood, who heard of 
his landing when at Ashburton on market-day, so far for- 
got the family traditions as to gallop over to Torquay and 
shout for the new king, and rode in his train, and did his 
share of the fighting. More lucky than his companions, he 
found his way home, and went on.- farming — Twas John 
Leighan, of Foxwo^’thy — as if nothing had happened, and 
nobody afterward troubled him. In this great cabinet were 
kept the treasures of all those generations, about fifteen in 
number, who now He — fathers, mothers, sons, and daugh- 
ters — in the green church-yard of Challacombe. Daniel 
Leighan, the owner of the cabinet, thought himself a warm 
man, but his warmth, in his own mind, consisted of his 
fields and his investments; he little knew or suspec^d how 
valuable were those treasures in his cabinet. 

There were pictures on the walls — colored engravings and 
mezzotints of the last century. I take it thab^att, in the 
form of pictures, did not reach the DevdnsKve farm 
earlier than the year 17^0 or thereabouts. On the mantel- 
shelf were certain china vases which caused anguish to tlie 
critical soul: they dated from the year 1820, I think. 
Above the vases were old-fashioned samplers in frames, ' 
things which made one babble of Mme. Barbauld, Mrs. 
Trimmer, and Joanna Baillie. ' I donT know why, because 
I never saw any of Mrs. Barbauld’s samplers, or those of 
the other ladies. 

A piano stood at the wall, laden with songs and music — 
not, I fear, of the highest classical kind, for Mary^s school 
at Newton-Abbot, where she had spent two long years, 
knew little of classical music. "Will Nethercote — I who 
wrote this story am that Will — sent her the songs from 
London, and George Sidcote bouglit her* the music at New- 
ton or at Teignmouth. There was also a shelf of books; 
but these were even less successful, from the classical point 
of view, than the music; for they consisted of novels, also 
given by this London person, and of pretty books bought 
for her in her boyish days by George Sidcote, and if we just 
hint that the leading bookseller of Bovey is apparently — to 
judge by the works laid out upon his shelves— under the 
influence of two young men who wear broad hats and flop- 
ping skirts, and talk loud as they walk in the streets, and 
profess a longing to restore church discipline, you will un- 
derstand how satisfying to the imagination these books 


u 


TO CALL HEU MINE. 


were. Mary reproached herself for liking the works of 
Mrs. Oliphant, Thomas Hardy, and Wilkie Collins — those 
quite mundane persons — better than these gaudy volumes. 

She was dressed for the afternoon in a pink chintz, with 
a pink-aud-white-flowered apron, of the kind which covers 
the whole front of the dress; round her neck she had a 
white lace ruffle. All the morning she had been at work 
about the house and the poultry-yard, yet now she looked 
as if she had not done a stroke of hard work all day, so 
cool, so quiet, and so dainty was she to look upon. Her 
hands — not, to be sure, so white and so small as those of a 
countess — were brown, but not coarse; and her face, though 
she was out in all weathers, was not burned or freckled. 
Yet in her eyes there was a world of trouble. She was 
troubled for others, not for herself; she was suffering, as 
some women suffer all their lives, from the dangers which 
hung over and threatened her lover. You will find out 
presently that these were very real and terrible dangers, 
and that his life, and therefore hers, was menaced with 
shipwreck, imminent and unavoidable. 

Daniel Leighan awoke at half past four. Generally the 
waking from an afternoon nap is a gentle and a gradual 
process: first a roll of the head, then a half-opening of the 
eyes, next a movement of the feet and hands, before full 
life and consciousness return. • This afternoon Daniel 
Leighan, who had been sleeping quite peacefully antj^ rest- 
fully, awoke suddenly with a cry, and sat upright in his 
chair, clutching the arms, his eyes rolling in horror and 
amazement. 

“ Mary,^^^ he cried, and then the horror passed out of his 
face, and his eyes expressed wonder and bewilderment only. 

The girl, who was sitting at the window, work in hand, 
was at his side in a moment. 

“Mary,^" he gasped and panted, and his words came 
painfully, ‘‘ I saw him; I saw him — the man who robbed 
me. I saw him plain — and I have forgotten — I have for- 
gotten! It was — oh, I knew just now~I have forgotten, 
Mary!’^ 

‘ ‘ Patience, uncle, patience. Mary i3atted and smoothed 
the pillows into their places. Another time 3 ^ou will re- 
member; you are sure to remember, if the dream only 
comes again. Lie down again and think. 

He obeyed, and she covered his head again with his silk 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


35 


handkerchief, which sometimes soothes into slumber, if the 
silk is soft enough. He had started from his sleep, as if 
stung into wakefulness by the recollection of something hor- 
rible and painful; and his dream had vanished from his 
memory, leaving not a trace behind. With such trouble 
did King Hebuchadnezzar awake, to find his dream unin- 
telligible. But the terror was left, and the foreboding. 
Mary saw the terror, but she knew nothing of the forebod- 
ing. Yet her uncle’s mind was filled with anxious fears 
springing out of this vision. She saw the rolling eyes, the 
clutching of the chair arms, and the look of bewilderment; 
but she only thought her uncle was startled, like a child, 
in his sleep, and crying out, like a child, for help when 
there was no danger. He lay still for a few moments 
while she stood beside him and watched. Then he tore off 
the handkerchief and sat up again. 

“It is quite gone,” he said, in despair. “ I have lost 
the clew. Yet I saw him — oh, I saw him, clear and dis- 
tinct! — the man who robbed me. And while I was going 
to cry out his name — just as I had his name upon my lips 
— I awoke and forget him. ” 

“If it comes again,” said Mary, incredulous in spite of 
her words, “ you will be sure to remember. Perhaps it 
will come again. Patience, uncle.” 

“ Patience! when I had the clew? Patience! when I 
could follow up the robber, and tear my papers out of his 
hands? Patience! — don’t be a fool, Mary!” 

“ Well, uncle, if it has gone, and you can’t bring it back 
again, try to forget that it ever came; that is the wisest 
thing to do. You shall have your tea, and then you will 
feel better.” 

“Mary” — he turned to her piteously — “it is cruelly 
hard. Can’t yoi(^ remember? Think. Perhaps I talked 
in my sleep — some men do. Have you never heard me say 
anything — call some one by name? If I had only the least 
little clew, I should remember.” 

“ Why, uncle, how should I remember?” 

“ It came back to me — all so clear — so clear and plain. 
And I have forgotten. Oh, Mary, my money! my 
money!” 

“ Yes, uncle. But it is six years ago, nearly, and you 
have done very well since. And it is not as if you had lost 


36 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


all your money. Why, you have prospered while all the 
rest have been doing so badly. You must think of that. 

“ Lost all my money he repeated, testily; “ of course 
Tve not lost all. As if a man could bear to lose a single 
penny of the money that he has spent his life in saving. 
Do you know what I have lost, girlr^^ She knew very well, 
because he told her every day. “ There were bonds and 
coupons in the bag to the sum of near upon a hundred and 
fifty pounds a year — nearly three thousand pounds they 
meant. As for the share certificates, they didnT matter; 
but coupons — coupons, Mary; do you hear — payable only 
to the bearer — a hundred and fifty pounds a year — a hun- 
dred and fifty pounds a year! — near three thousand 
pounds His voice rose to a shriek, and suddenly 

dropped again to a moan. “ Three thousand pounds! 
Payable to the bearer, and I havenT got them to present! 
If 1 were a young man of thirty, I might recover the loss; 
but I am old now, and I can never hope to make it up — 
never hope to make it up again !''^ 

It was six years since that loss had occurred; but this 
wail over the lost money was raised nearly every day, and 
almost in the same words, so that the girl felt little sym- 
pathy now with the bereavement of her uncle. 

“ It was six o^’clock when I left Ashburton. The girl 
had also heard this story so often that her interest in the 
details had become numbed. “ Six o’clock when I started 
to ride home. I had seventy pounds in gold upon me — fifty 
pounds in one bag and twenty in another; my tin box in a 
blue bag was round my neck, and it was filled with 
securities and bonds and share certificates. ‘ Better leave 
’em here, Mr. Leighan,’ said Fennell, the bank manager. 
I wish I had! I wish I had, Mary! But I was headstrong, 
and would have everything in my own strong-box under 
my own eye. So I refused, and rode off with them. At 
half past seven — it was dark then — I rode into Widdi- 
combe. There I pulled up. I well remember that I 
stopped there, and had a glass of brandy and water. It 
was brandy and water hot; and they tried to make it weak, 
but I wouldn’t be cheated. And then I rode on. I re- 
member riding on. And then — then — ” At this point he 
paused, because here his brain began to wander, and his 
memory played him tricks. 

“ At Widdicombe, uncle, you must have paid somebody 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


37 


twenty pounds, and left your bag of papers: and now you 
can t remember who it was. ” 

‘‘No, child; no. I paid away no money at all in Wid- 
dicombe, except fourpence for the brandy and water. 
V\hy should I? There was nothing owing to anybody. 
Why should I leave a box full of securities and bonds in the 
hands of any one when I refused to leave them in the bank? 
Was I ever a fool-hardy person that I should trust anybody 
with property of that kind 

No,^^ said Mary. ‘‘It is difficult to understand why 
you should do so. 

“ The landlady— she a respectable widow woman, and 
it s only right that she should be near with her brandy — she 
bears me out. She remembers my paying the fourpence 
and riding away. After that I remember nothing. Why 
have 1 forgotten the ride through the lanes under Honey- 
bag? Wffiy donT I remember passing through He wed-stone 
Gate to the open down? Yet I remember nothing more. 
Mind you, I won’t have it said in my hearing that I ever 
gave anybody anything, or that I left my bag lying about 
like a fool. Yet when George Sidcote picked me up the 
bag was gone, and twenty pounds had gone too— twenty 
pounds!” 

“ Well, but, uncle, consider: you had seventy pounds in 
gold in your purse and only twenty were taken. If it had 
been a thief he would surely have taken the whole, and 
your loose silver, as well as your watch and chain. Why, 
all those were left. ” 

“ I don’t know. Perhaps he thought the bag of papers 
would satisfy him. , How do I know? What made me fall 
off the pony? I never fell off the pony before. If I was 
Balaam I would make that old pony tell me who found me 
lying in the road and robbed me. Fell off the pony!— how 
in the world did I come to fall off the pony? I wasn’t 
drunk, girl; nobody ever saw Daniel Leighan drunk. I 
wish I was Balaam— I wish I was — just for fire minutes — 
to have a few words with the pony.” 

“You must have given the twenty pounds to somebody 
in Ashburton or AViddicombe, with the bag of papers! 
Everybody says so. ” 

“ I didn’t, then! I felt the bag round my neck when I 
rode out of Widdicornbe — the bag round my neck and the 
money in my pocket. Do you think I should not remem- 


38 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


ber if I had paid away twenty pounds— twenty pounds! — do 
you think I shouldn't have taken a receipt^ and the bill and 
the receij)t both in my pocket? Twenty pounds — twenty 
pounds! — one would think the sovereigns grew in the hedge 
like the roses. 

“ Well, uncle, but think: every day you trouble your 
poor head about it, and nothing comes of it; why not try 
to forget the loss? Think what a prosperous man you have 
been all your life. Think what your property is now, 
though you began with only one farm : money in the bank 
and money invested and all; everybody talking about your 
good fortune. You should be thinking of what you have, 
not what you have lost.'^^ 

“ Gp on; go on. Easy for a girl like you to talk. 
There^s that difference with a woman that she only enjoys 
the spending; while the man — he heaved a deep sigh, 
and did not complete the sentence. ‘‘ Oh! Mary — he 
reached out his long bony fingers and made as if he were 
raking in the gold — “ to think — only to think! — of the 
pleasure I have had in making the money! It was little by 
little, not all at once. No, no; I saw my way, and I 
waited. I laid my plans, and I had patience. Ee sure 
that not a field have I got but I worked and planned for it. 
The world is full of fools: weak men who have no business 
with property; men without grip, men who just hold on 
till somebody comes and gives ^em a shove off. Your 
cousin David was such a fool, Mary.^^ 

Mary said nothing. Her cousin David was doubtless a 
great fool, but people said unkind things about her uncle^s 
conduct toward him. 

If I had not secured his property, some one else would. 
It is still in the family, which ought to be a great comfort 
to him, wherever he has gone. George Sidcote is another 
— well, he isn’t exactly a fool, like David; but he doesn’t 
get on — he doesn’t get on. I fear very much — ” 

“ Uncle, spare him!” 

“ Because he wants to marry you, child? Is that a rea- 
son for interfering with the course of business? When the 
pear is ripe, it will drop! — if not into my mouth, into some 
other man’s. Business before love, Mary.” 

“ If I could give him my fortune, he would be out of his 
difficulties.” 

“ Your fortune, Mary? AAHiere is it? What fortune? 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


39 


You have none unless you marry with my consent. Your 
fortune? Wiy, it depends upon me whether you ever ^et 
it. I don^t say that I shall never consent. Show me the 
right man — not a spendthrift, Mary.^^ 

“ George is no spendthrift."^ 

‘‘ Nor a sporting and betting man."" 

‘ ‘ George is not a sporting and betting man. "" 

‘‘ Nor a man in debt."" 

“ If George is in debt, it is not his fault."" 

“ A substantial man, and one who knows the worth of 
money: bring that man along, and we will see. If not — 
well, Mary, I am getting on for seventy, and I can"t last 
forever, and perhaps — perhaps, I say — I shall leave you 
my money when I die. You can wait till then. Six thou- 
sand pounds is a tremendous great lump to part with, when 
a man is not obliged to part with it. And I am not obliged 
to give my consent. No, no; and after I"ve lost three thou- 
sand — three thousand! Besides, you" re comfortable here: 
what do you want to marry for? what"s the good of marry- 
ing? Better stay at home and save money. I give you 
your board and your lodging, Mary, while you are here, 
for nothing; and your clothing too — yes, your clothing."" 
He spoke as if many young people had to go without. 

Mary interrupted with a little laugh. 

“ Yes, uncle, I know. "" She laughed, thinking how 
much her uncle had given her for dress in the last year or 
two. Now since a girl may make up her own things, but 
can not very well make the chintz, cambric, and stuff itself, 
gossiping people often wondered how Mary managed to 
dress so well and prettily. Perhaps the fowls helped her, 
or the pigs. 

“ Well, uncle, but if I do marry without your consent 
you will have to give the money to my cousin David. "" 

“ Yes, yes; of course. What"s the good of telling me 
that? But David is dead, no doubt, by this time, and then 
the money must remain with me, of course "" — the will did 
not say so. But you won"t do that, Mary; you "11 never 
be so wicked as to do that. Besides, if you did. David"s 
accounts with me have never been made up — that is, prop- 
erly made up — and I don"t doubt that when we come to look 
into them it will be found that he owes me a great deal 
still — a great deal of money still. I was very soft — fool- 
ishly soft — with David."" 


40 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


Mary made no reply. Her uncle had been, indeed, soft 
with David: so soft that he had sold him up and turned 
him out, and now possessed his land. 

Mr. Leighan sighed heavily, no doubt over his foolish 
softness, and became silent. It was not often that he 
talked so much with his niece. 

Six years before this, about half past nine one evening in 
the autumn of the year 1880, George Sidcote, walking 
home, found Mr. Leighan lying in the middle of the road 
on Heytree Down. His pony was grazing quietly beside 
him, close to the road, and he was lying on his back sense- 
less, with an ugly wound in his head, the scar of which 
would never leave him. He had fallen, apparently, from 
his pony, and as farmers do not generally get such ugly 
falls when they ride home at night, the general conclusion 
was that he must have been drunk to fall so heavily, and 
to fall upon his head. Ho suspicion of violence or robbery 
was entertained; first, because no one ever heard of vio- 
lence at Challacombe, and secondly, because he liad not ap- 
parently been robbed. So, at least, it seemed to those who 
carried him home, for his pockets were full of money, and 
his watch and chain had not been taken. 

For three days and three nights Daniel Leighan lay 
speechless and senseless, and but for a faint pulse he seemed 
d|iad. When he recovered consciousness, the first questions 
he asked were concerning a certain tin box containing papers 
which he declared was hanging in a bag from his neck. 
How of that tin box no one knew anything. Presently, 
when he counted his money, he swore that he was twenty 
pounds short. 

I am sorry to say that no one believed him. That is to 
say, there was no doubt that he had taken that box from 
the bank, because the manager knew of it. But in his 
drunken fit — people were quite sure that he must have been 
drunk — he must have droj^ped the thing somewhere, or 
put it somewhere: it would be found some day. Time 
passed on, but that box was not found. And the loss, the 
inconvenience, and the trouble resulting from its loss were 
frightful. To begin with, there were coupons of municipal 
bonds and such securities, things only paid to bearer and 
never replaced if lost, representing investments to the 
amount of nearly three thousand pounds. The whole of 
this money, with its yearly interest, gone, unless the box 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


41 


should be found-clean gone. Is ifc wonderful that Daniel 
Leighan went mad and tore liis hair only to think of this 
terrible blow? Other papers there were, share certificates 
and so forth, which could be replaced by payment of a fee, 
but the coupons could not be replaced. Their payment 
could be stopped, but without presentation there was no 
payment possible. 

Perhaps it was the agony of mind caused by this loss, 
perhaps the blow upon his head, which caused the paralysis 
of his legs.' This affliction fell upon him a month or so 
after the accident. Then they put him in his chair beside 
his • table, and propped him up with pillows, and he went 
abroad no more. But his brain was as clear as before, his 
will as strong, and his purpose as determined. 

“ Take your tea, uncle, said Mary, “ and try to think 
no more of your horrid dream. 


CHAPTER IV. 

CHALLACOMBE-BY-THE-MOOR. 

The village of Challacombe is known by sight to those 
excursionists from Teignmouth, Dawlish, or Torquay who 
take the train to Bovey Tracey, and then go up by the 
char-a-bancs — locally called “ cherrybanks — to Hey Ton 
and back ; because on the way they pass through a little bif 
of Challacombe. It is also known to the people who take 
lodgings at Chagford for August, in the belief that they 
are going to be upon Dartmoor. Once during their stay it 
is considered necessary to drive over to Challacombe. They 
do this, and when they have arrived, they get out, stand 
upon the green, and gaze around. Then they either climb 
up the Tor, which rises just beyond the green, or they go 
to John ExoiPs Inn for a cup of tea, or they get into the 
trap again and are driven away, under the impression that 
they have seen Challacombe. The village green, however, 
is not the parish of Challacombe. Again, there are two or 
three farm-houses scattered about in the great parish where 
lodgings can be procured, and those who take them for the 
season, if they are good walkers and do not mind ro^s 
which can not show one single level foot, or hot lanes which 
are deep and narrow, and run between high hedges of rose, 
blackberry, honeysuckle, and holly, which keep out the air 


42 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


— after six or seven weeks of exploration and research, allow 
themselves rashly to boast that they know Challacombe. 
But no; after a second visit, or a third, they are fain to 
confess that, of all the places they have ever visited, Challa- 
combe is the hardest to know, and takes the longest time to 
learn. 

This being so, no one will expect me to describe the 
place. Besides, it is so far from the ordinary track, so re- 
mote from fashion, so little adapted for visitors, that it 
would be cruel to tempt strangers there. Let them be con- 
tented with a glimpse of the green from the cherrybank or 
the Chagford pon3^-carriage, just as the fashionable world 
which talks so much of art is contented with one single 
glimpse of the walls of the Koyal Academy on the after- 
noon of the private view. 

There is no village at Challacombe. There is a village 
green, and there is a church; on one side of the green is a 
long, low, picturesque old house with a porch, called Ivy 
Cottage, which was formerly the rectory; on another side 
are John Exon’s Inn and Susan Wreford’s village shop, 
which contains the post-ofiSce; on the third side are the 
walls of the rectory garden, the village schools, and the 
farm buildings of Hedge Barton; lanes aud another small 
house make up the fourth side of the irregular quadrangle 
formed by the green. One or two primeval bowlders still 
stand upon the green, too deeply bedded to be removed, 
and Father Cummings’s pigs, geese, and turkeys claim the 
right of running over it. Close to the green there was 
formerly a rude stone circle, one of the many on and around 
Dartmoor; but there was a rector — Must one sling stones 
at the Church? Yet this is lamentably true. Once there 
was a rector; pity that ’tis true. This good man — I say 
good, because I know nothing except this one sin to charge 
against him, and one may commit one sin in a life-time and 
yet be a good man — this rector, therefore, suffered himself 
to be annoyed because antiquaries came and examined this 
circle, sketched it, planned it, walked around it and across 
it, measured it, laid their heads together over it, shook 
their fingers about it, and wagged their chins at each other 
oyer it— would have photographed it, but Dame Science 
did not yet permit that art to be practiced — picnicked amid 
its stones, and brought with them their young friends — 
male and female they brought them, two by two — to look 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


43 


at these mysterious stones, and hear them talk. The young 
friends— those who were not antiquaries— only said, “ How 
deeply interesting!"" and made the day, if it was fine, and 
the place, which is a very beautiful place, an occasion and 
a spot for the most delightful flirting. I think it was the 
flirting rather than the archaeology which vexed his rever- 
ence, who had now grown old, poor dear, and could flirt 
with nobody any more, except his wife, and she was old 
too;^ not so old as her husband, but yet she wanted no more 
flirting. However, the rector became so seriously annoyed 
that, one day in the winter, when there were no antiquaries 
about, he sent to Bovey for two men and some blasting 
powder, and in a couple of days he had this rude stone 
monument blown into little pieces and carted away. Mel- 
ancholy ghosts of Druids, it is said, come to scream upon 
the spot all midsummer night, in guise of owls; and for 
many years the enraged and baffled antiquaries came 
regularly once in the month of J une, which is sacred to 
stone circles and to Druids, and on the site of the perished 
circle they performed a solemn service of commination 
upon that rector. They cursed ; him with the curses of 
Ernulphus; they cursed him out of the Psalms; they cursed 
him out of the Book of the Greater Excommunication; they 
cursed him after the manner of the ancient Briton, the 
mediaeval Briton, and the modern Briton. Whether any 
of the curses took, as vaccination takes, I know not; cer- 
tain it is that the rector is now no more, so that perhaps 
the commination killed him; perhaps, however, it only gave 
him tooth-ache. 

The village of Challacombe-by-the-Moor, even with the 
advantages held out to it of a church, a green, a shop, and 
a public-house, refused to grow, or even to be born. This 
is odd. One reads of American cities with tbeir church, 
their school, their hotel, and their weekly paper, but never 
of an American church, school, hotel, and weekly paper 
without a city. It is gratifying to be ahead of these push- 
ing Americans even in so small a matter. Ohallacombe is 
a parish of farms and farm-houses, with a hamlet or two — 
such as Watercourt and Erellands. It stretches on the east 
from Watersmeet, where the Bovey and the Becky fall into 
each other"s arms, to the outlying farm of Barracot-on-the- 
Moor; it goes beyond Hamil Down on the west; and it be- 
gins on the north at Eoxworthy, in the valley of the Bovey, 


44 


TO CALL HER MIXE. 


and extends to the slopes of mighty Hey Tor on the south. 
Within these limits there is scenery of every kind except 
one: the fine champaign country which our forefathers 
loved so much is altogether wanting. Every field is on a 
slope, every lane runs up a hill, and every stream — there 
are four at least — goes plunging and tearing downward over 
its bed of bowlders and of gravel. 

When Mary had given her uncle his tea, and cleared away 
the “ things — you will not think the worse of her when I 
tell you that she washed the cups and saucers — they were 
lovely cups and saucers, and almost iDriceless if Mary had 
but known — put them back upon the cabinet, and carried 
out the tray with her own hands — she left him to his papers 
and his pipe, took her hat and w^ent into the porch, where 
she stood for a moment dangling her hat by its strings, 
shading her eyes with her hand, and taking a deep breath, 
as if to change the atmosphere of age, disease, and avarice 
in the parlor for the sweet fresh air of the mountains out- 
side. The porch, which was covered with jasmine, now be- 
ginning to put forth its waxen blossoms, led into the gar- 
den, which in front of the house is only a narrow patch with 
a tall Norfolk pine. But at the side of the house it is a 
goodly garden planted with every kind of herb for the serv- 
ice and solace of man; stocked also with fruit trees, and 
having an orchard where the cider apples hang rosy red and 
golden yellow, yet sour enough to set the children's teeth 
on edge even unto the fourth and fifth generation. Be- 
yond the low garden hedge stretched a great pasture-field, 
known as Great Camus, Little Camus being its neighbor. 
It lay quite across the ridge, here broad, on which the house 
was built, and sloped over into the valley below, where the 
Becky ran down its narrow gorge, hastening to keep its 
appointmeiic with the Bovey beyond Biddy Bock. It is a 
quiet little stream in summer, and generally the water is 
so clear that you might as well fish in your bath as hope to 
entice the trout; in the spring, however, you would have 
heard it babble up here as it ran from bowlder to bowlder, 
under alder and willow and filbert-tree, beneath the trailing 
arms of the bramble. You would have heard its roar as it 
leaped down the rocks of Becky Fall. Beyond the valley 
Mary gazed upon a huge lump of a hill, Blackdown, solid, 
pund, and steep. - In its side they have cut the new road; 
its line lies a clear and well-marked scar upon^he green 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


45 


slope, until it is hidden among the deep woods of Becky. 
Above these woods there rose and floated in the still air a 
thin wreath of smoke, just to show that among the trees 
were houses and human companionship. For my own part 
I love not those wild and savage scenes where no hut or 
wreath of smoke speaks of brother man. Robinson Crusoe 
was of the same opinion. Above the woods and beyond the 
hill, three miles and more away, rose the two great pyramids 
of Hey Tor, standing out against the clear blue sky, which 
had not yet assumed the haze of evening. Everywhere 
hills; to the right of Hey Tor, but lower down, the tumbled 
rocks of Hound Tor, looking like the ruined walls and 
shattered fragments of some great mediaeval castle; lower 
still, Hayne Down, with its rocks thrown carelessly like 
coals from a shovel down its steep face. They were the 
playthings of some infant giant in the days gone by; he 
built houses out of them, and then kicked them over, just 
as a child builds his houses of wooden bricks and knocks 
them down. One of his toy structures still remains; a pile 
of stones one above the other, making a pillar thirty feet 
high, which men call Bowman ^s Hose. There had been 
rain in the morning; the clouds had passed away, though 
they were still clinging to the trees and rolling along the 
sides of the valley below, as often happens at Challacombe 
after rain; the air was so clear that you could see the rocks 
of Hey Tor as plainly as if you stood beside them, and 
every change of curve in light and shadow on Blackdown 
across the valley. The birds in July are mostly silent,, yet 
at Challacombe their song never wholly ceases all the year 
round. From the trees behind the house there was heard 
the song of the thrush; a robin whistled from the garden- 
croft; from a neighboring hedge Mary heard the shrill 
screech of the wren; somewhere was a jay chattering in 
his harsh voice; somewhere was a dove cooing; the swifts 
screamed high in the air, thinking of their nests on top of 
the church tower; and the chiff-chaff sung the merry notes 
which delight him all the summer long. 

Mary saw this scene, and heard these sounds every day 
of her life, yet she never tired of it; though she would have 
been unable to put into words the desire for the mountains 
which grows with the growth of those who live among 
them. Then, with a little flush* upon her cheek and a 
brightening of her eye, she went out of the garden and to 


TO C^LL HER MIKE. 


4C 

the back of the house, where she knew George Sidcoto 
waited to take her to the choir practice, for "twas Saturday 
evening. 

Most houses, even in the country, put their best side to 
the front. Gratnor kept its best side at the back. There 
is no view, to be sure; but there is a babbling little stream 
about two feet broad which runs merrily among miniature 
canyons and gullies; a leet is taken from this stream by a 
little wooden canal to the great water-wheel which stands 
more than half hidden in its dark and mysterious recess; 
the canal is leaky, and the water trickles forever melodious- 
ly upon the stones below. The place looks like a clearance 
in the forest; but an old clearance, not one of those where 
the stumps stand dotted about the field. Beyond the stream 
the ground rises steeply. This is the slope of Oddy Tor, by 
some called Nympenhole and by others Viper Tor. It is 
clothed with thick woods, dark and impenetrable, which 
hide the moss-grown bowlders on the top. Agate opens to 
a lane which leads to the Green through the hamlet of 
Watercourt, past the little chapel, where the people who go 
to church in the morning gather in the evening, to hear 
what they consider a purer gospel — though less respectable. 
It is “ served from Chagford, where I think that the 
illustrious Mr. Perrott could tell you something about it. 
There is something pathetic in the way that country peo- 
ple go contentedly to church, and listen to a gentleman and 
a scholar in the morning, and in the evening gather round 
one of their own folk, who speaks to them in the language 
they can understand, and out of the ideas which are in 
their own heads. The lane also passes the smithy, where 
Harry Rabjahns and his two ^prentices all day long blow 
the bellows and beat the anvil. 

It was to the back of Gratnor that George Sidcote came 
to meet his sweetheart. He might have gone to the front 
had he chosen — the house was not closed to him — Daniel 
would have received him with such cordiality as he bestowed 
upon any. But it is not pleasant to call upon a man who 
refuses his consent to your marriage, and to whom you ovve 
more money than you can pay. George therefore usually 
sat upon a tree — there were always the trunks of trees lying 
about — or, if it rained, took refuge in the linney, where 
he waited for Mary before they went together to the church 
to practice next day's hymns and chants. 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


47 


CHAPTER V. 

FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE. 

The reason why farmers, gardeners, and cultivators of 
the soil generally are so fond of sitting down upon any- 
thing that offers, leaning against door-posts, hanging over 
gates, and in every way relieving the legs of their natural 
duties, is, I suppose, because they get up so early. If a 
man is crossing a meadow after rain, or a plowed field after 
a thaw, at six in the morning, he finds comfort on a wagon- 
shaft at seven in the evening. It is not because he stands 
so much, but because he is standing so early. Shop-girls 
do not want to be always sitting when the shop is closed; 
they would rather be dancing; and policemen off duty are 
said to take their rest standing, for. aught I know, on one 
leg, like the secretary-bird. George Sidcote, on this July 
evening, had been up since five, and he waited for his sweet- 
heart, a brier-root between his lips, sitting on the shaft of 
a wagon under the iinney, where it was shady and cool. 
When Mary came through the garden gate he rose slowly, 
partly because he was a Devonshire man and partly because 
if a man is over six feet in stature he naturally takes longer 
to get upon his feet than one of the short-legged brother- 
hood, who are jointed with India-rubber. Then he laid his 
pipe down upon the wagon, took both her hands in his, 
bent over her and kissed her gravely on the forehead, as if 
to seal her once more for his own. There was little of the 
sweet love language between these two; they belonged to 
each other; they were so well assured of the fact that there 
was no need to renew their vows any more than between a 
couple who have been married a dozen years. 

“ George!’"’ said Mary, softly. 

“ Mary!” George whispered. 

Some maidens would like more of the passion and rapt- 
ure which finds vent in passionate and rapturous words — 
such as those employed by all poets, and by novelists in 
that line of business. Very few young persons even of the 
most dazzling beauty get this passion and rapture, simply 
because their lovers, however capable in other respects, are 


48 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


incapable of finding those words. Men therefore fall back 
upon the commonplaces of passion— mere “ dear ducky 
language— though their hearts be red hot, and though, in 
the language of the last century, they burn and melt and 
die. You may observe in the law reports, though many 
actions for breach of promise are tried, and many love-let- 
ters are read, the lover seldom indeed rises above the dear 
ducky level, except when he drops into verse, which is 
never original. George Sidcote, certainly, could not rise 
to these flights of articulated speech, nor would Mary have 
understood him had he made the attempt. She was satis- 
fied to know that he was her lover. To have a lover or a 
sweetheart at all, my dear young ladies, ought to make you 
extremely jiroud, though never arrogant; and, really, to 
have such a comely lover as George Sidcote, yeoman, of 
Sidcote Farm, Ohallacombe, is perhaps the greatest gift 
that the fairies have in their power to bestow. As for his 
stature, it was over six feet; and as for his form, it M'as like 
Tom Bowling^s — one of the manliest beauty; but Tom had 
the advantage, denied to George, of setting off that beauty 
with a greased pigtail as thick as a club. His face was 
steadfast, his cheek ruddy, his eyes clear and honest; but, 
like Mary’s before her uncle had his dream, his eyes were 
troubled. 

They sat down together on the wagon shaft, side by side, 
and George took up his pipe. 

‘‘ I saw him this morning,” he said, slowly — Mary knew 
very well who was meant by “ him ” — “ and I told him 
what I told you the other day, my dear.” 

“ What did he say?” 

He said that he knew it beforehand. He had calculated 
it all out on ^ he was certain, he said, that this 



season would 


‘ Very well,’ he said, ‘ the law 


provides a remedy when the interest or the principal can 
not be repaid. Of course,’ he added, ‘ I am not going to 
lose my money.’ That is what he said first, Mary.” 

‘‘ Oh! and what did he say next?” 

‘‘ I told him that if he would give his consent, your fort- 
une would nearly pay off the mortgage.” 

What did he say then?” 

“ Well, Mary, then we had a little row — not much. He 
said that it was clear I only wanted your money, and he 
should never give his consent. I said that it was clear he 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 49 

meant to make any excuse to refuse his consent, in order to 
keep your money in his own hands.” 

“ I am sorry, George,” said Mary. ‘‘ He told me noth- 
ing of this. ” 

It was not likely that he would tell you. He heard 
what I had to say in his drj way, and then asked me if there 
was anything more that I wisM to say. AVell, Mary, I 
was roused a bit by this, and I reminded him that, if you 
did not receive your auiit's fortune, David would be en- 
titled to the money. Well, he was not the least put out. 
He only laughed — his laugh is the sort that makes other 
people cry— and said that you were a good girl, but silly, 
like most girls, and if you chose to throw away your fort- 
une he was sorry for you, but he could not prevent it. 
Well, Mary, I came away. So that is done with; and this 
is the last year there will be one of the old stock in the old 
place. 

Courage, George,” she said^ ‘‘ we will do something; 
we will go somewhere — somehow we will live and prosper 
yet.” 

‘‘ ‘ Somewhere!^ he echoed, “ and ‘ somehow!^ Well, 
I have a pair of hands and a pair of broad shoulders — yes. 
But you, Mary, and my mother?” 

“ Courage,” she said again: “ have faith, George. Even 
if we have to go away, we shall be together. I was reading 
yesterday a story about settlers in Canada. It had pictures. 
There was the wooden house, and the clearing, with the 
forest all round ; I thought it might be ours. I read how 
they worked, this pair of settlers, and how they gradually 
got on, clearing more land and increasing their stock till 
they became rich in everything except money. I thought 
of ourselves, George; we shall not want money if we can 
live on a farm of our own somewhere, and if we can work 
for ourselves. You are so strong and brave: you do not 
mind hard work; and — and— let us have faith, George. 
God is good. If we must go from here, we will go with 
cheerful hearts, and leave my poor uncle to his lands and 
wealth.” 

Thus, when Adam and Eve went forth together from 
their paradise into the cold world, it was the woman who 
admonished and exhorted the man. 

In these latter days it hath pleased Providence in wisdom 
to afflict the British farmer with bad seasons and low prices. 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


50 , 

and the prospect of worse to follow; wherefore’ he will per- 
haps soon become a creature of the past, and the broad acres 
of Great Britain and Ireland will be turned into pheasant 
preserves and^ forest-land for the red-deer, let at fabulous 
prices to millionaires from the United States. As for the 
rustics, all except one in fifty will migrate to the towns, 
where they will seek for work and will find none, and then 
there will be riots and risings, with murders and robbery. 
What will happen after that I do not know, except that 
there will certainly be no recruits left for the British army; 
so that unless, as seems possible, other nations may be 
similar and similarly affected, our nation will presently go 
under, and be no more heard of, except in history; and 
some one will write “ Britannia fuit on a gigantic slab, 
and stick it up on the cliff at Dover for all the world to 
read. 

George Sidcote^s history may be guessed from his words. 
An inheritance of a small estate, a single farm, his own 
land, and the land that had been his forefathers^; the estate 
encumbered with a mortgage, which had become in these 
bad times harder to pay off than rent, because rent may be 
adjusted, but the five per cent, is like the law of the Medes 
and Persians. And the time had come when the struggle 
could no longer be maintained; the land would be taken 
from him. It is not wonderful if the young man looked 
sorrowful, and his countenance was heavy. What does 
it mean?^’’ George asked, in ever-increasing wonder. 
“ Formerly there was nothing in the world so valuable as 
the land. If a man had money, he bought land; if a man 
wanted an investment, he put it out on mortgage. Is the 
land gone worthless? My father, Mary, was offered, if he 
would sell his land, three times the money that old Dan lent 
him on mortgage, and now it would not sell, at most, for 
more. What does it mean?’’ 

Alas! This is a question which is asked daily, not only by 
farmers like George, but by deans and canons, rectors and 
vicars, colleges and schools, landlords and investors, widows 
and orphans, those who keep shops in country towns, the 
thousands who live by working for the farmers, the en- 
gineers and wheelwrights, the corn-factors and middle-men; 
nay, even by those who live by providing the pleasures of 
the rich — what does it mean? And are the fields of these 
islands to become as worthless, as the slag that lies outside 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


51 


the smelting-fiirnaceff? Shade of Cobden, deign to listen! 
What does it mean.^ 

“ Oh, George/^ said Mary, “ does it help us at all to ask 
that question Indeed, George was as importunate with 
this difficulty as her uncle was with his lost money. ‘‘ Let 
us face the trouble, whatever it is. You will let me go with 
you — I will not be a drag upon you — if it is only to take 
care of mother for you. 

He threw his arm round her neck and kissed her again — 
an unusual demonstration from him. 

‘‘ You would put courage into a cur, Mary,^^ he said. 
“ There! I have done what I could, and I have told your 
uncle my mind. Let us talk of something else. Oh, I 
forgot to say that Will has come down. We shall find him 
waiting for us at the church.'’^ 

“AVill? laniglad."^ 

“ He got away a week before he expected. ” 

“ He will cheer you up, George. ” 

“ Yes; he talks as if nothing mattered much and every- 
thing was a game. The Londoners have that way, I sup- 
pose. It is not our ivay."’^ 

They left the linney and the little brook, and walked 
away through the narrow lanes, holding each other by the 
hand like two children, as they had always done since they 
were children together, and George, who was three years 
older, led little Mary by the hand to keep her from falling. 

This Will — I do not mean the will and testament of 
Mary^s aunt — that George spoke of with irreverence was 
none other than myself, the person who narrates this true 
history of country life for your amusement and instruction. 

I am sure, at least, that it is fuller of instruction than most 
of the leading articles that I am allowed to write. I am 
Will Nethercote, in fact; and though of the same surname 
as Mary, and a Devonshire man by birth and descent, am 
no relation to Mary. I once endeavored, it is true, to rem- 
edy this accident, and proposed to establish a very close 
relationship indeed with that dear girl, but I was too late. 
My father was the rector — you may see his monument in 
the church-yard — and when I left Oxford I found I had no 
vocation for the life of the country clergyman. Heavens! 
what a calm and holy life some men make of it! and 
how some do fret and worry because of its calmness 
and inactivity! Therefore I became a journalist. It is a 


52 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


profession which suits me well, and I suppose if I live an- 
other forty years and arrive at seventy I shall have written 
nine thousand more leading articles, and my countrymen 
will then be saturated with wisdom. And when I retire, no 
one will ever know the name of the man who led them up- 
ward to those higher levels of knowledge and .philosophy. 
I did not wait for these young people in the church-yard. I 
walked down the lane to meet them. 

I declare that my heart leaped up only to see that sweet, 
fond girl walking with her lover, only to see the glow upon 
her cheeks and the soft light in her eyes. What says the 
foolish old song, “ I^d crowns resign to call her mine^^? 
Crowns, quotha! If I had earFs coronet, bishop^s miter, 
royal crown, or even a tiara, I would resign it with the 
greatest alacrity for such a prize. Happy lover! though to 
win his bride he must take her penniless, while he has to 
give up his own broad lands! Well, she was not for me. 
Mary greeted me with her usual kindness, bearing no resent- 
ment on account of that proposition of mine above referred 
to. 

“And how is George behaving, Mary? And has the 
Dragon relented ?^^ 

‘ ‘ George always behaves well, she said; ‘ ‘ But as for the 
Dragon — ’’ She shook her head. 

“ See, now, Mary,^^ I said,. “ I mean to jDut the case be- 
fore a lawyer. I will do it directly I go back. In the will 
— I went to Somerset House on purpose to see it — ^your 
aunt leaves you six thousand pounds, to be paid to you on 
the day that you marry with your uncle^s consent. If you 
marry without his consent, it is to go to David. Well, 
David has gone away, no one knows where, and perhaps he 
is dead, or will never come back. Suppose you were to 
marry now without your uncle ^s consent, who is to have the 
money ?^^ 

“ My uncle says it will be his own. ” 

“We shall see to that. It is a case for a lawyer^s advice. 
And I will get that advice directly I go back.^' 

I did not consult a lawyer on the point, for a very good 
reason, as you shall hear. I suppose that as civilization 
advances such wills with conditions so absurd will cease to 
be made; or, if they are made, will be put into the hands of 
novelists for their purposes in treating of a world that has 
gone by. Girls who have money left to them will have it 


TO CALL HER MIN^. 


53 


handed over when they come of age, with perfect liberty to 
marry as they please. Certain it is, considering the great 
interest which we all take in each other^s alfairs, there will 
not be wanting plenty of friends to give advice and in- 
formation as to the character, reputation and income of 
aspirants. I have sometimes thought that nobody ought, 
under any circumstances, to make any will at all, or after 
his death to do by his own provision and ordering any good 
or evil whatever. But I find this doctrine at present in ad- 
vance of the world, and therefore it commands no favor. 

“ I am not back in Challacombe yet, Mary,^^ I went on, 
because I knew the trouble that was before them and in 
their minds, and so I began to make talk. “ This is only 
a dream. I am in Fleet Street. I am in the lobby of the 
House. I am writing a political leadei* at midnight, and 
just dreaming of Challacombe. It takes a week to get the 
streets and the papers out of my head — a whole week! what 
a curtailment and docking of a holiday! A whole week 
sliced out of a month! and then eleven months more of 
slavery! Man^s life is not a vapor, Mary. I wish it was. 
Vapors donT grind at the mill every day.-’^ 

I turned and walked toward the church with them, in 
the narrow lanes between the high hedges. The beauty of 
early summer was gone, but there are still flowers in plenty 
to make them beautiful in July and August. The honey- 
suckle was out; the blue scabious and the foxgloves are not 
yet gone; there are the 23ink centaury, the herb-robert, the 
red-robin, the campion, the meadow-sweet, the sheep Vbite, 
the ox-eyed daisies, the blackberry blossom, and the rowan 
berries — green or greenish-yellow as yet — old friends all, 
and friends of Mary^s. 

We talked of indifferent subjects, of what had happened 
since I last came down. One of the rustics was dead, an- 
other, had nearly lost the use of his legs in the cold weather, 
and now hobbled on crutches — in these high lands rheuma- 
tism seizes on all the old and on many of the middle-aged, 
so that Moreton-Hampstead, the metropolis of the moor, 
seems on market-day like the native city of M. le Diable 
Boiteux; one or two village girls had been married; such a 
farm was still wanting a tenant, and so on. Pleasant to 
talk a little of the place where one was born, and of the 
people whom one has known from infancy; pleasant to be 
back once more among the hills and streams. But that 


54 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


subject of which we were all thinking — George’s impending 
ruin — lay like a lump of lead on our hearts. And so we 
walked through the darkening lanes, our faces to the west, 
so that Mary’s glowed in the golden light like an angel 
face in a painted window, and presently came to the 
church. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE CHOIR PRACTICE. 

Ik the church the choir were already assembled, and 
were waiting for them. They are so old-fashioned at 
Challacombe that they actually suffer the maidens to sing 
in the choir with the boys and the men. ’Tis a Christian 
custom, though forbidden by some modern ecclesiastics; 
and why women still consent to go to churches where their 
sex is continually insulted by exclusion from the choir, as 
if they were really the unclean creatures of the monkish 
mind, I know not. Some day, when they understand the 
thing and what it means, and what a deadly insult it is to 
Mother Eve and her daughters, there will be a revolt the 
like of which no Church has ever yet seen, and a schism 
compared with which all previous schisms will have been 
mere trifles. The choir of Challacombe consisted, there- 
fore, of half a dozen boys and as many village maidens, 
with Harry Rabjahns, the blacksmith, for bass, and 
George Sidcote for tenor. There was a harmonium at the 
west end, and the choir sat in front of it. Eormerly there 
were violins, a ’cello, and a clarionet; but these haveffallen 
into disfavor of late years, and I know not where one may 
novv go to hear the quaint old village church music, which 
had its points, of which a solemn and awe-inspiring droning 
and a mysterious rumbling were perhaps the chief. 

As soon as we arrived, the practice began. They sung, 
right through, first the chants and then the hymns, both 
for morning and evening, so that the practice took an hour 
and more. The voices and the singing were as familiar to 
me as the rustling of the trees outside and the cackling of 
the‘ geese upon the Green. 

^ I sat in the porch and listened, watching the fading 
light in the windows, and the shadows falling along the 
aisles, while the voices of the choir, uplifted, rang out clear 


TO CALJ. HER MINE. 


55 


and true, and echoed around the walls of the empty church, 
and beat about among the rafters of the roof. It is an old 
church and a venerable, though they have now taken away 
the ancient, crumbling, and worm-eaten pews, which were, 
I dare say, ugly, and yet gave character to the church. 
With the old pews disappeared certain memories and asso- 
ciations. You could no longer picture, because you could 
no longer gaze upon them, how, in the old days. Grand- 
father Derges went round, cane in hand, to chastise the 
boys in the middle of the sermon; he did not take them 
out into the church-yard and there administer his whack- 
ing, but he whacked them in the very pews. Grandfather 
Derges has now retired from his function as sexton, though 
he still breathes these upper airs, and hobbles along the 
lanes upon his sticks. Great-Uncle Sam Derges, however, 
stil carries round the plate on Sunday. The old pews are 
gone, and with them also the memories of the yeomen who 
sat in them, each family in its own place, from generation 
to generation. As the yeomen too are gone, and only ten- 
ant-farmers left, perhaps it is as well that the pews have 
gone. Something, however, is left of the old church. 
They have not taken down the ancient rood-screen, with its 
painted apostles in faded colors, on which, in the old days, 
1 was wont to gaze with wonder and curiosity what time 
my father mildly read his discourse, which everybody heard 
with attention and nobody heeded. Had the rector pos- 
sessed the lungs of Peter the Hermit and the persuasion of 
Kobert of Clairvaux, ^twould have been all the same, for 
the sermon to the rustic means nothing but a quarter of 
an hour of good behavior in the presence of his betters. 

Presently it grew so dark that they lighted two or three 
candles on the harmonium, where they showed, amid the 
shadows of the aisles, like far-off glimmering stars. 
Among the voices I could clearly distinguish George^s clear 
high tenor and Mary^s soprano. They rose above the rest, 
and seemed to sing each for each alone, and to fit the 
music by themselves, as if they wanted nothing but each 
other, and could together make sweet music all their lives. 

Outside, the clouds had come up again and were now 
rolled over all the sky, so that the evening was strangely 
dark for the time of year, and there was a rumbling of 
summer thunder among the hills and in the coombes, which 
echoed from side to side and ran down the valley slopes. 


56 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


Then my thoughts left the choir and the singing, and 
wandered off to the subject which made them both so sad. 

The situation was gloomy. How could I help, save to 
stand by and encourage to patience? George had already 
told me all. It was indeed what I fully expected to hear. 

I can no longer keep up the struggle, he said; “ the 
land can not pay the interest on the mortgage, even if I 
live as poorly as a laborer and work as hard. I have seen 
Daniel Leighan, and I have told him that this year must be 
the last. AVhen the harvest is in, he may foreclose if he 
pleases. It is hard. Will; is it not?’^ 

“ Is there no hope, George?^^ 

“ None. Either the interest must be paid or the princi- 
pal. Else — else^' — he paused and sighed — ‘‘else there 
will be no more Sidcotes left in Challacombe. ” 

“ But if he would consent — 

“He will never consent. He would have to part with 
Marys’s money if he did consent. He means to keep it in 
his own hands. We are tight in the old man^s grip. He 
will foreclose; then he will have Sidcote, as he got Berry 
Down and Eoxvvorthy, and he will keep Mary^s fortune.’’^. 

“ AVhat will you do, George? 

“ I shall emigrate to some place, if there is any place left 
where a man can till the land and live upon it. Will, is 
there some dreadful curse upon this country for our sins 
that the land can no longer be cultivated because it will not 
even keep the pair of hands which dig it and plow it?” 

“ I know nothing about our sins, old man: that depart- 
ment never furnishes the theme for a leader. But there are 
certain economic forces at work — which is the scientific 
way in which we put a thing when we don’t see our way 
about — economic forces, George, by which the agricultural 
interests of the country are being ruined and its best blood 
is destroyed by being driven from the fields into the towns. 
Our sins may have been the cause; but I don’t think so, 
George, or else you would have been spared. Now 
economic forces — confound them! — act on saint and sinner 
alike.” 

“ I work like the farm-laborer that I am. There is noth- 
ing I do not try to save and spare; but it is in vain. The 
land will no longer bear the interest.” 

“ What does Mary say?” 


TO CALL HER MINE. 57 

“ She will go with me. Whatever happens, she will be 
happier with me than he re — alone. 

“ Kight, dear lad. Where should she be but with you?” 

“We will marry without his consent. Then he will be 
unmolested in her fortune and my farm. I dare say there 
will be a hundred or two left after the smash. ^Poor girl! — 
and I thought we should have been so happy in the old 
place. Poor Mary!” 

Here was enough for a man to think about in the porch! 
What could 1 do? How could I help? Was there any 
hope of bending the will of a stubborn, avaricious old man 
by pleading and entreaty? Could I pay off the mortgage? 
Why, I had no more money than any young journalist just 
beginning to make an income may be expected to have. 
At the most, I might find a few hundreds to lend. But 
Challacombe without Mary! Sidcote without George! — then 
there would be no more beauty in the woods, no more sun- 
shine on the slopes, no more gladness on the breezy tors! 
And the past came back to me — the past which always 
seems so tender and so full of joy: I saw again the two boys 
and the girl playing together, rambling over the downs, 
climbing together the granite rocks, reading together — al- 
ways together. How could Challacombe continue to exist 
unless two out of those three remained together? 

The black clouds hanging low made the evening so dark 
that outside the porch one could see nothing. But the 
lightning began to play about, and lit up the grave-stones 
with sudden gleams. Presently, looking out into the black- 
ness, I discovered in one of these flashes a man in the 
church-yard walking about among the graves. This was a 
strange thing to see — a man walking among the graves after 
dark. I waited for the next flash of lightning. When it 
came, I saw the man quite clearly; he was bending over 
a head-stone and peering into it, as if trying to read the 
name of the person buried there. There is something 
uncanny about a man in a quiet village church-yard choos- 
ing a night darkened with thunder-clouds for the perusal 
of tombstones. One thinks of a certain one who lived 
among the tombs, and he was a demoniac. 

Then the man left the grass, probably because he could 
no longer read any of the names, and began to walk along 
the gravel-walk toward the porch; perhaps because he saw 
the lights and heard the singing. You know how some- 


58 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


times, when the air is full of electricity, one shivers and 
trembles and hears things as in a dream? "Well, I seemed 
to recognize this man^s footstep, though I could not tell to 
whom it belonged, and I shivered as if with prescience of 
coming trouble. 

Whoever the man was, he stood at the entrance of the 
porch and looked about him in a hesitating, doubtful way. 
The choir were just beginning the last of their hymns: 

“ Lead, kindly liglit, amid the incircling gloom; 

Lead thou me on.” 

“ That^s the voice of George Sidcote,^^ said the stranger 
aloud, and addressing himself, not me. “ He always sung 
the tenor. I remember his voice well; and that's the voice 
of Mary Hethercote: I remember her voice, too. That's 
Harry Rabjahns, the blacksmith, singing bass: a very 
good bass he always sung. Ay; they are all there — they 
are all there. ' ' 

“ Who are you?" I asked. Who are you to know all 
the people?" 

A sudden flash of lightning showed me a ragged man 
with a great beard, whona-I knew not by sight. 

‘‘ I know you, too. I didn't see you at first. You are 
Will Nethercote." His voice was hoarse and husky. 
“ You are the son of the rector. I remember you very 
well." 

“lam; but the rector is dead; and who are you?" 

“ Before I go on," he said— “ before I go on," he repeated 
these words as if they had some peculiar significance to 
him, “ I thought I would come here first and see his grave 
---his grave— the place where they laid him; and I thought 
I would read what they wrote over him — how he died, you 
know — just out of curiosity, and for something to remem- 
ber. " 

“ Laid whom?" The man, then, was, like that other, 
doubtless a demoniac. 

“ I should like to think that I had seen— actually seen— 
his grave," he went on. “ But the night has turned dark, 
and I can't read the names, and haven't got a match upon 
me. Will you tell me where they've laid him?" 

“ Laid whom, man? Who are you looking for?" 

“lam looking for the head-stone of Daniel Leidian." 

“ Daniel Leighan?" 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


59 


** Old Dan, they used to call him. Who died six years 
ago, or thereabouts. ” 

“ You mean Mr. Leighan of Gratnorr^^ 

The same, the same! I suppose Mary Nethercote got 
Gratnor when he died. They always said that he would 
leave her all he had, Gratnor Farm and Foxworthy and 
Berry Down. Oh, sheM be rich with all those lands."" 

“ Who told you that Daniel Leighan was dead?"" 

“ I saw it,"" he replied, hesitating— “ I saw it in the 
palmers. » There was some talk about it at the time, I be- 
lieve. A — a— a coroner"s inquest, I was told; but I never 
heard the verdict. Perhaps you remember the verdict. Will 
Nethercote, and would kindly tell me? I am — yes — I am 
curious to hear what the verdict of the jury was — "" 

“You are strangely misinformed. Daniel Leighan is 
not dead."" 

“ There is only one old Dan Leighan, and he is dead,"" 
returned the strange man. 

“ I tell you th^,t old Dan Leighan is still living. He is 
paralyzed in his legs, if you call that dead ; but if you have 
business with him you will find that he is very much alive, 
as much alive as you. "" 

“ Hot dead?"" The man reeled and caught at the pillars 
of the porch. “ Hot dead? Do you know what you are 
saying?"" 

“ Ho more dead than you."" 

“Oh!"" he groaned, “ this is a trick you are playing. 
What do you play tricks for? He is dead and buried long 
since. "" 

“ I think you must be mad, whoever you are. I tell you 
that Daniel Leighan is alive, and now in his chair at home, 
where you may find him to-uight if you please to look for 
him. "" 

“ Hot dead! not dead!"" By the frequent flashes of the 
lightning I had now made out that he was a very rough- 
looking man, in very ragged and tattered dress, looking like 
a laboring man but for his beard, which was much larger 
and fuller than an English laborer ever wears. “ Hot 
dead — can it be? Then Fve had all the trouble for noth- 
ing — all the trouble for nothing. Hot dead?"" He kept 
on saying this over and over again, as .if the wonder of the 
thing was altogether too much for him. 

“ What do you mean,"" I asked, “ by your rubbish about 


60 


TO CAtiL HER MINE. 


ah inquest and a verdict? What inquest should Uiere be? 
And what do you mean by saying that you saw it in the 
papers?’^ 

‘‘ Not dead? Then how should his ghost walk if he is 
not dead? Are you sure that Daniel Leighan — Old Dan: — 
is alive this day — the same Old Dan?"'^ 

“ I suppose it is the same Old Dan. There has never 
been any other Old Dan that I know of."’"' 

“ It canT be the same. It must be the devil. 

“That is possible, and now you mention it, I. think he 
may be, and very likely is, the devil. But I wouldn't say 
so openly if I were you.^^ 

^‘Not dead!^^ 

He turned and walked slowly away. I heard him step- 
ping over the stile, and then the sound of his footsceps 
ceased, as if he was walking over the village green, which, 
in fact, was the case. 

The voices of the choir ceased; the candles were ex- 
tinguished; and the singers came out. We two men 
walked home with Mary. There was no air in the lanes, 
the night was hot and sultry, and the lightning flashed in- 
cessantly. I told them on the way my little adventure with 
the strange man peering about among the tombs. 

“ It was like a bit of some old German story,^^ I said. 
“ I donH know why a German story, but when there is 
lightning with darkness, grave-stones and a mysterious fig- 
ure, one thinks of Germany somehow. I thought he was 
the specter of some dead and gone villager come back in 
his old clothes — gone ragged, you know, in his wanderings 
about the other world — to take a walk round the church- 
yard among his friends; a strange thmg to be prowling 
among the tombs to read the name of a man still living. 

“ Who could it be?"^ asked Mary. 

“ I thought I knew his fo§tstep, but I did not knov/ his 
voice. I can not tell who it was. He knew your voice, 
Mary; and 5^ours, George; and Harry, the blacksmith’s-- 
Good heavens!” — for here my memory of the man came 
back suddenly with one of the lightning flashes — “good 
heavens! how did I come not to recognize him at once? 
Mary, it was! — how could I have forgotten? Why, the 
thing may change your whole future.” 

“ Will, what do you mean?” . 

“ Your vrhole future, Mary. Your uncle refuses his 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


61 


consent because he thinks that David is dead: well, then, 
David IS alive! For the man who prowled among the 
tombs and wanted to see your uncle’s head stone was no 
other than David Leighau himself — come home again in 
rags. ” 


CHAPTER VII. 

WHO CAN HE BE? 

The inn upon Challacombe Green is a small place and a 
humble, though visitors who drive over from Ghagford may 
get tea served in a neat and clean parlor, and those who 
find no solace in tea may refresh themselves with beer or 
cider. But let them not look for food, for there is no 
butcher or any shop of purveyor or provider within four 
miles. Yet, if a man should desire a bed he may find one 
here, clean and sweet, if he write for it beforehand; and 
meat as w^ell to stay the inner man, provided the landlord 
has been warned in time to catch the butcher. The inn 
is licensed to Joseph Exon. It has no bar or tap-room; 
but Mrs. Exon receives her friends in a large, low room, 
which is at once the keeping-room, kitchen and drawing- 
room of the Exon family. It is also the smoking divan 
of the parish of Challacombe. The room is paved with 
stone, and furnished with a long wooden table and benches, 
a high- backed wooden settle to pull before the fire in cold 
weather, and a broad, hospitable fire-place. The kettle is 
always on the hob; overhead the black rafters are adorned 
with sides of bacon and strings of onions; the cider and the 
beer are fetched from a narrow closet or cellar at the end 
of the room. There are seldom many men in the place, 
except on Saturday night; and, as a rule, everybody is 
gone, the inn shut up, and the family are asleep in their 
beds by half past nine. It is, moreover, essentially a vil- 
lage inn, designed for the rustics of that village which has 
never existed; the farmers would not for instance, be seen 
sitting in its room in the evening, or at any other time; it 
is the club, the resort and the place of recreation for the 
laborers. 

The room was about half full at nine o’clock this Satur- 
day evening. Three or four men, strangers, who had come 


62 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


up from Newton- Abbot on a road-making job, were drink- 
ing beer. The rest, laborers on the Challacombe farms, 
sat every man behind a tankard of cider — that sour brew 
which nips the throat, and somehow, though it is so sour 
and so weak, refreshes the hot hay-makers or the weary 
traveler better than any other drink ever invented. The 
fire was burning, although it was midsummer. The com- 
pany sat about the room for the most part in silence; not 
because there was nothing 'to say, but because those who 
meet every night know very well that what they have to say 
everybody else has to say; speech, therefore, is needless. 
Had these rustics been Americans or colonials they would 
have played whist, poker, monte or euchre, also in silence; 
being Devonshire men, they sat and smoked their pipes, as 
their fathers and grandfathers had done in a friendly 
silence which was in itself restful; and they felt the convivial 
influences of repose and elbowship. 

The latch was lifted, and an unknown person — a stranger 
— stood in the door, looking about the room. Strangers, in 
guise of tourists, are often seen on Challacombe Green in 
the day-time; they come over in traps of every description; 
but these strangers are dressed in tweeds or broadcloth. 
Such a stranger as he who stood in the door- way and looked 
around is rare indeed. Tramps and vagabonds never come 
to Challacombe; men really in search of work seldom, for 
'they inquire first at Moreton or at Bovey, where it is well 
known that there is no work to be had in the parish excej^t 
farm-work, and of hands there are more than enough in 
these bad times, so that the population of the parish is 
slowly decreasing. 

Such a stranger, too! Devonshire rustics are not close 
followers of fashion to gird at a man because he goes in 
raiment rough-hewn. But, there is a point where tl^ hon- 
est garb of labor begins to become the contemptible rags 
and tatters of destitution. And there is a point at which 
the duds of the beggar seem ready to drop to pieces should 
Providence suffer a shower to fall upon them. Both these 
points had been reached — and passed — by the rags upon 
this man. He was clothed, in fact, in the same things, 
ragged and weather-stained, which he had worn all the way 
from Australia. Fancy undertaking a long voyage with no 
at all — absolutely none, not even a hand-bag or a 
hat-box, or even a pocket-handkerchief full of things! A 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


63 


voyage all the way from Sydney without a change! His 
flannel shirt was torn down the front, and exposed his 
chest; a dirty red cotton handkerchief was tied around his 
neck; a leather strap buckled round his waist seemed ab- 
solutely necessary to prevent that shirt from fluttering olf 
in the breeze. Ilis trousers were of the coarsest and com- 
monest canvas, such as are worn in this country only for 
the roughest work, and put off when that is done; his hat 
was the same shapeless old felt wfliich he had worn in the 
South Sea Islands, but now enriched with a hole, recently 
excavated, in the crown, which gave it an inexpressibly 
forlorn appearance. Ko one who had the least self-respect 
or the command of a single shilling would have worn such 
a hat; not the poorest tramp on the road, hot the raggedest 
wretch on the queen ^s highway would so much as stoop to 
pick up such a thiijg. Not the lowest rag-and-bone man, 
or the meanest dealer in marine stores, would have offered 
a farthing for that hat. 

His only respectable garment was an old sailor^s jacket, 
worn and shabby, but yet respectable. It had been be- 
stowed upon him by one of the hands when he came aboard 
with nothing but his flannel shirt. 

David Lei^han had money in his pocket — all that was 
left of his share of the barony’s check. Yet he had worn 
these things so long that he had left off even thinking about 
them; they were ragged and shabby, but what was he who 
wore them? Besides, if you come all the way from Aus- 
tralia in obedience to an unfortunate ghost, who gives you 
no rest until you have consented to come, and all for the 
sole purpose of making confession and atonement, and giv- 
ing yourself up to justice as a murderer; and if you expect 
to meet with the care and attention which are always lav- 
ished upon the personal comfort of a criminal in the inter- 
val between the day of humiliation and the day of ele- 
vation — why waste money on mere outward finery and 
fashionable display? Add to the tattered and torn garments 
of this remarkable man — the like of whom had never be- 
fore been seen in Challacombe — an immense beard, long, 
not silky, as some beards are, but coarse and stiff, 
if not stubbly, and of a red hue rather than brown, 
which covered two feet or so of his chest, and was nearly as 
broad as his shoulders, and a mass of matted hair which 
had neither been cut nor combed for a longer time than 


64 


TO GALL HETl MINE. 


one likes to think of. Such as this, the new-comer stood 
at the open door and looked about the room as one who 
remembers it. But his face was seared, and his eyes seemed 
as if they saw nothing. Mrs. Exon, at sight of him, spoke 
up: 

‘‘ Eow, my man,^^ she said, “ what do you want? We 
don’t encourage tramps here. You must go as far as 
Bovey to get a bed to-night.” 

“lam not a tramp,” he replied, hoarsely. “ I have got 
money. See.” He pulled out a handful of silver. “ Let 
me come in, and give me a glass of brandy. ” 

He shut the door, and sat down at the lowest end of the 
table, taking off his hat and shaking his long hair off his 
forehead. Six years ago all the men in the room would 
have risen out of respect to the owner of Berry Down. How 
not a soul remembered him. 

Mrs. Exon gave him a tumbler with some brandy in it, 
and set a jug of cold water beside him. She looked at him 
curiously, being touched, perhaj)s, wdth some note of 
familiarity or recollection at the sight of his face and tlie 
sound of his voice. He drank off the brandy neat and set 
down the timibler. Wdiat was the matter with the man? 
His eyes were full of trouble, and with a kin^ of trouble 
which the good woman had never seen before. Hot pain 
of body or grief, but yet trouble. He dropped his head 
upon his_^ chest and began to murmur aloud as if no one was 
in the place but himself. 

“ Hot dead! he is not dead! How can that be? how can 
that be?” Then he lifted his head again, and gave back 
the glass to Mrs. Exon. “Bring me more brandy,” he 
said. 

The landlady obeyed, and gave him a second tot of brandy 
in the tumbler, and again indicated the jug of cold water. 
The man had now begun to tremble in every limb; legs 
and arms and hands were shaking and trembling. His 
head shook; his shoulders shook; his lips moved. The 
guests in the room stared and wondered. Then he fixed his 
eyes upon the landlady’s, and gazed upon her as if she could 
read in them what ailed him. Bewilderment and amaze- 
ment, which beat upon his soul, as the old poet said, as a 
madman beats upon a drum — this was the trouble which 
caused his eyes to have that terrifying glare and his limbs 
to shake and tremble. Hot joy, or even relief, such as 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


05 


might have been exj^ected; these might come later, when 
the man who for six long years had been pursued by the 
fury of a murder-stained conscience should realize that he 
was, after all, no murderer save in intent. David Leighan's 
mind was naturally very slow to move. He could not at 
first understand how the whole long torture of conscience, 
the frightful dreams, the profound and hojieless misery of 
his exile, could go for nothing; why it had taken him years 
of sutfering and the constant terror of a niglit phantom to 
persuade himself that the only way to escape the torture of 
his days and nights was to return to England and confess 
his crime. This once done, he felt certain that the nightly 
horror and the daily fearful looking for judgment would 
disappear, and he would go to the gallows with cheerfulness 
as a sharp but certain remedy of pangs intolerable. There 
are instances recorded — I know not with, what truth — of 
murderers who have actually forgotten their crime, and 
gone about the world with hearts as light as before they 
did it. David was not one of these superior murderers, 
lie had never for one moment forgotten the white face of 
his victim, and the staring eyes in which there was no light 
or life, lie saw Death — Death with suddenness and vio- 
lence — all day long, and dreamed of Death all the night. 
And now he could not understand that his dreams and his 
visions, his guilty fears and his contemplated confessions, 
were all vain imaginations, and might have been neglected. 
Therefore he sat trembling. 

Mrs. Exon watched him, thinking he must have a fit of 
ague. He drank off the second glass of brandy neat, and 
set down the glass. Then his head dropped again, and he 
resumed his muttered broken words, still trembling vio- 
lently. 

“Hot dead! he is not dead! How can that be? how can 
that be?''' He lifted his head again. “ Give me more 
brandy. Give me a great tumblerful of brandy.''^ 

“ The poor man is ill," said Mrs. Exon. “ Well, if 
brandy will stop the shivering — it's a fever, likely, or an 
ague that he's got — here, my man, drink this. " She gave 
hifn half a tumblerful, which he poured down. 

The third dose had the effect of composing him a little. 
His legs ceased trembling, though still his hands shook. 

“ Yes," he said, “ I am ill. I was took sudden just 


60 


TO CALL HEK MIKE. 


now. I am better now. Here’s for your brandy, and 
thank you.” 

He sat up and took a long breath. 

“ Where may you have come from?” asked one of the 
men. 

I’ve come from Southampton, where I was put ashore. 
I’ve come all the way from Australia. ” 

‘‘ And where might you be going to next?” 

“I’ll tell you that, my friend, as soon as I know.” 
Eagged and rough as he looked, he spoke, somehow, as if 
he belonged to something better than would have been 
judged by his appearance. “If you had asked me this 
morning, I should have told you that I was going to Bovey; 
now I don’t know.” 

Mrs. Exon still looked at him with the curiosity which 
comes of a half-uneasy recollection. 

“ Old Han Leighan, now,” he went on; “ can any one 
give me news of him? I mean Old Han; him as had Grat- 
nor first and Fox worthy afterward, and then got Berry 
Hown, being a crafty old fox. Is he alive still? Some- 
body told me he was dead. ” 

“"Surely,” replied Mrs. Exon; “ he is alive and hearty, 
except for his legs, poor man. ” 

“ Oh, he’s alive — alive and hearty? I thought, perhaps 
— somebody told me — that he died — I forget how — six years 
ago come October it was. That’s what they told me : six 
years come October.” 

“ He had an accident just about that time — six years ago. 
Perhaps that is what you are thinking of.” 

“How the devil,” he asked, without taking any notice 
of this reply, “ can a live man have a ghost? How can a 
live man send his own ghost to travel all round the world? 
Won’t he want his own ghost for himself sometimes?” 

“ He’s got a touch of fever,” said the landlady, “ and it 
has gone to his head. You had better go home, my man, 
and lie down, if you have got a bed anywhere. ” 

I want to know this,” he repeated, earnestly; “ did 
anybody ever hear of a living man sending his ghost out on 
errands, to keep people awake and threaten things? ^ It 
can’t be; it isn’t in nature.” 

Nobody could explain this fact, which was new to all. 
Mrs. Exon shook her head as if the questioner, being light- 
headed, must be treated tenderly and one of the men re- 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


C7 


membered a village ghost story, which he began. Unfort- 
unately for the Society of Psychical Research, that story 
was interrupted at its very commencement by this remark- 
able stranger. 

How did he do it, then?^^ he asked, impatiently, bang- 
ing the table with his fist; “ tell me that! How did he do 
it?^^ Then he pulled himself together and became natural 
again. “ About his legs, now. "What’s the matter with 
'Han Leighan’s legs?” 

“ Why, after his accident they began to fail him, and 
now he’s paralyzed, and never leaves In’s room unless he’s 
wheeled out of a fine morning. But hearty in ajDpetite, 
and as for his head, it is as clear as ever, so they tell me. 
Por my part, Joseph and me never had no doings with Mr. 
Leighan, and we don’t want none.” 

“ What was his accident?” 

“ He fell from his pony coming home at night. Some 
say he was in drink; but then he was always a sober man, 
and I don’t believe he was in drink, though perhaps he 
may have had a fit; because how else could he fall at all, 
and how should he fall so hard, right upon his head? Mr. 
George Sidcote it was that found him lying in the road. 
He was insensible for three days. When he came to, he 
couldn’t remember nor tell anybody how the accident hap- 
pened; but he said he’d been robbed, though his pocket was 
full of money, and his watch and chain hadn’t been taken. 
Papers they were, he said, that , he was robbed of. But 
there’s many thinks he must have put those papers some- 
where, and forgotten because of the knock on his head. ” 

«‘01iP^_the stranger rubbed his hands. “I’m better 
now,” he said; “ I am much better. Out in Australia I 
caught a fever, and it gives me a shock now and again. 
Much better now. So— Old Dan Leighan fell from his 
pony— he had an accident, and he fell— from his pony— on 
his head— and was senseless for three days— and was robbed 
of papers? Now who could have robbed him of papers? 
Were they valuable papers?” 

“ Well, that I can not say. You’ve had your brandy, and 
it’s an expensive drink for the likes of you,^ my man. 
Y’ou’d best pay for it and go. It’s a good five mile to 

Bovey.” _ . 

•“ Ay, I’ll pay for it and go. He lost papers, and he was 


68 


TO CALL HER MlHE. 


insensible for three clays, and he cau^t remember — ho! ho! 
lie can^t remember — ho! ho! ho!^’ 

Did yon ever see a man in an hysterical fit? It is pretty 
bad to look at a woman laughing and crying with uncon- 
trolled and uncontrollable passion, but it is far worse to see 
a man. This strong, ragged man, seized with an hysterical 
fit, rolled about upon the bench, laughing and crying. 
Then he stood up to laugh, rolling his shoulders and cry- 
ing at the same time, but his laugh was not mirthful, and 
his crying was a scream, and he staggered as he laughed. 
Then ho steadied himself with one hand on the table; he 
caught at another man V shoulder with the other hand; and 
all the time, while the villagers looked on open-mouthed, 
he laughed and cried, and laughed again, without reason 
apparent, without restraint, without mirth, without grief, 
while the tears coursed down his cheeks. Home of the men 
hold him by force; but they could not stop the strong sob- 
bing or the hiccoughing laugh or the shaking of his limbs. 
At last, the fit spent, he lay back on the settle, propped 
against the corner, exhausted, but outwardly calm and 
composed again. 

“ Are you better now?^^ asked the landlady. 

“ IVe been ill,” he said, “and something shook me. 
KSeems as if I"ve had a kiml of a fit, and talked foolish, 
likely. What did I say? what did I talk about?"^ 

“ You were asking after Mr. Leighan. Who are you? 
AVhat do you want to know about Mr. Leighan? You 
asked after liis health and his accident. And then you had 
a- fit of hysterics. I never saw a man — nor a woman, 
neither — in such hysterics. Y^ou’d best go home and get 
to bed. AVhere are you going to sleep? Where are you 
going to?’^ 

“ Whereas your husband, Mrs. Exon? Where's Joseph?' ' 
he asked, unexpectedly. 

Mrs. Exon started and gasped. “Joseph's gone to 
Bovey with the cart. He ought to have been home an 
hour ago. But who are you?" 

“ William Shears " — he turned to one of the men — “ you 
don't seem to remember me?" 

“ Why, no," William replied with a jump, because it is 
terrifying to be recognized by a stranger who has fits and 
talks about live men's ghosts. “ Eo; I can't rightly say 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


69 


“ Grandfather Derges — he applied to the oldest inhabit- 
ant, who is generally found to have just outlived his mem- 
ory, though if you had asked him a week or two ago he 
could have told the most wonderful things — “ Grandfather 
Derges, don’t you remember me?” 

“No, I don’t. Seems as if I be old enough to remem- 
ber'everybody. But my memory isn’t what it was. No, I 
don’t remember you. Yet I should say, now, as you might 
belong to these parts, because you seem to know my name.” 

That did, indeed, seem a logical conclusion. Grand- 
father Derges therefore had not outlived his reasoning fac- 
ulties. Why, of course the stranger might belong to these 
parts. How else could he know Joseph Exon and William 
Shears and Grandfather Derges? 

“ I remember you, grandfather, when you used to cane 
the boys in church.” 

“Ay, ay,” said the old man. “ So I did — so I did. 
Did I ever cane you, master? You must have a wonderful 
memory now, to remember that.” 

“ Don’t yo/i remember me, AVilliam Clampit?” he asked 
a third man. 

“ No, I don’t,” replied William, shortly, as if he did not 
wish to tax his memory about a man so ragged. 

Then they all gazed upon him with the earnestness of 
Mr. Pickwick’s turnkeys taking their prisoner’s portrait. 
Here was a man who knew them all, and none of them 
knew him. He had come from Lord knows where — he said 
Australia; he had talked the most wonderful stuff about dead 
people and live people; he had drunk neat brandy enough 
to make him drunk; and he had had a fit, such a fit as no- 
body had ever seen before. Now he was quiet and in his 
right senses, and he knew everybody in the room, except 
the strangers from Newton-Abbot. 

“I’ve been away a good many years,” he said, “ and I’ve 
come back pretty well as poor as.when I left, and a sight 
more ragged. I didn’t think that a beard and rags would 
alter me so that nobody should know me. ^ AVhy, Mrs. 
Exon, does a man leave the parish every week for Australia 
that I should be so soon forgotten? 

He did not speak in the least like one of themselves. 
His manner of speech was not refined, it is true; but there 
are nuances, so to speak, which differentiate the talk of the 
masters from the talk of the rustics. He spoke like one 


70 


TO CALL HEE MINE. 


of the masters. So in France, the oiivrier recognizes the 
hourgeoise by his speech, disguise him as you may. 

“ I have come back without anything except a little 
money in my pocket. 'Now, Mrs. Exon, give me some 
bread and cheese for supper; I^ve had no dinner. Being 
ill, you see, and shaken more than a bit, I didn^t want my 
dinner. Then 1^11 have a pipe, and you shall tell me the 
news and all that has happened. Perhaps by that time you 
will find out who I am.^^ 

When he had eaten his bread and cheese, he called for 
more brandy, this time with water, and began to smoke, 
showing no trace at all of his late fit He talked about the 
parish, and showed that he knew everybody in it; he asked 
who had married and who were dead; he inquired into the 
position and prospects of all the farms; he showed the 
most intimate acquaintance with everybody and the great- 
est interest in the affairs of all the families. Yet no one 
could remember who he was. 

About half past nine the door was opened again. This 
time to admit Harry Eabjahns, the blacksmith, who had 
been finishing the choir practice with a little conversation, 
and was now thirsty. 

He stepped in — a big, strong man, with broad shoulders 
and a brown beard. His eyes fell upon the stranger. 

“ Good Lord!"^ he cried, ‘‘ iPs Mr. Havid Leighan come 
back again, and him in rags!^^ 

“Soitis— iPs Mr. Havid,"" cried Mrs. Exon, clai:>ping 
lier hands. ‘‘ To think that none of us knew him at first 
sight! And that you should come to my house, of all the 
houses in the parish, first, and me not to know you!— oh, 
Mr. David! — me not to know you! and you in this condi- 
tion! But youfil soon change all that; and Ifil make up 
the bed for you — and your uncle and Miss Mary will be 
downright glad to see you. Mr. David! To think of my 
not knowing Mr. David !''^ 


CHAPTER VHI. 

A QUIET SUNDAY MOKNING. 

• I SUPPOSE there is no place in the world more quiet than 
Challacombe on Sunday morning. All the men, all the 
boys, and all the girls, with some of the wives, are at 
church; and none but those who have babies are left at 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


71 

home. ^ The very creatures in the meadows seem to know 
that it is Sunday, and lie restfully in their j^astures. The 
quietest place in the whole parish I take to be Gratnor, 
because it lies off any of the lanes which lead to More ton, 
AViddicombe, or Bovey Tracey. The farm occupies the 
Itidge, a name which applies to both summit and slopes of 
a long projecting spur which runs eastward, narrow and 
steep, between the valley of the Becky and the valley of the 
Bovey. Standing on Hayne Down, over against the Kidge 
one can see how the ground breaks down, with hill after 
hill, each lower than the other, until the Ridge itself ab- 
ruptly falls into the lower Coombe at Kiddy Rock, where 
the waters meet. First, there is Ease Down; then, Mana- 
ton Tor; next Latchell; and lastly Kympenhole, or Oddy 
Tor, with Gratnor Farm beyond these Tors, its fields and 
meadows showing among the trees like a clearance in some 
great primeval forest. No path — save the narrow and 
winding Water Lane, which leads either to the clam across 
the Bovey, and so to Lustleigh Cleeve, or else to Horsham 
Steps, and so to Fox worthy and North Bovey — passes near 
Gratnor. It is quiet enough every day in the week; but 
then there are the sounds of labor, the ringing of the black- 
smith's anvil, the wheels of a cart in the lane, the wood- 
man's ax in the coppice, the voice of the plowman in the 
field — all the year round some voice or sound of work; but 
on Sunday there is nothing except tha quiet clucking of the 
hens and the self-satisfied quomp of the ducks, and the 
song of the birds from the woods of Latchell and Nym- 
penhole. 

Lsuppose that there was somebody left in the house — other- 
wise how should the Sunday roast and pudding be ready to 
time? — but when Mary had laid out the Bible and Prayer- 
book for her uncle to read the service of the day, with the 
weekly paper for him to take after the service, and had 
adjusted his cushions and left him, there was no sign or 
sound about the place of human creature. As for locking 
up houses or shutting doors for fear of thieves, Challacombe 
was like the realm of England under good King Alfred, 
when, as we know, gold crowns, and torquils, and brace- 
lets, and the most precious carved horns used to be hung 
out to ornament the hedges by ostentatious Thanes, and 
the casual tramp only sighed when he saw them, and, at 
the worst, sinfully envied their possessor, and wished that 


72 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


he had been born seven hundred years later, when he might 
have consigned them safely with the nearest “ fence/^ 

Mr. Leighan read the morning service — Litany, Lessons, 
Chants, Psalms, Commandments and the prayer for the 
Church militant here upon earth — quite through without 
omitting one single petition. He did this every Sunday as 
punctiliously as the captain of a Bombay liner. The clainis 
and calls of religious duty satisfied, he lay back in his chair 
and gently closed his eyes, surrendering his whole mind to 
the blissful prospect of sj)eedily foreclosing on Sidcote. 
The end of the year, he knew full well, and had made it 
all out clear on paper, would make an end of George, and 
put himself in as owner of that farm as well as all the 
others. Truly, in the matter of land, he was as insatiable 
as King Picrochole. So pleasing was the imaginary j^os- 
session of these acres that he forgot the weekly newspaper, 
and continued to picture himself as the owner of Sidcote— 
alas! that he could no longer ride about the fields — until 
he dropped into a gentle slumber. 

It was exactly twelve o^clock when he was suddenly 
startled by a man^s step. He knew the step somehow, but 
could not at the moment remember to whom it belonged. 
The man, whoever he was, knew his way about the place, 
because he came from the back and walked straight, tread- 
ing heavily, to the- room where Mr. Leighan was sitting, 
and opened the door.* It was David coming to call upon 
his uncle on his return. There was some improvement in 
his appearance. Joseph Exon had lent him certain gar- 
ments in place of those he had worn the day before; the 
canvas trousers, for instance, had gone, and the terrible 
felt hat with the hole in the crown. His dress was now of 
a nondescript and incongruous kind, the sailor^s jacket ill 
assorting with the rustic corduroy trousers and waistcoat. 
He had no collar, and the red handkerchief was gone; his 
beard and hair had been trimmed a bit, and he was washed 
Yet in spite of his improved dress he preserved the air of 
one who belongs to the lower depths. It is quite terrible 
to observe with what alacrity most men sink. It is as if a 
lower level was natural for most of us. I saw the other day 
in a work-house a man who had been — is still, I suppose — 
a clergyman of the Church of England. They employed 
him in attending to the engine fires; he stoked with zeal 
— no doubt with far greater zeal than he had ever shown 


TO CALL HEE MINE. 


73 


in his pastoral duties — and he wore the work-house uni- 
form as if he liked it and was at home in it. David, who 
had been a person of consideration and a gentleman, as 
gentlemen are reckoned at Challacombe, was now at his 
ease in the garb and appearance of a day-laborer. Had it 
not been for that specter which haunted him every night 
he would have been contented to end his days in Australia 
as a laborer paid by the job. 

He threw open the door and stood confronting the man 
whom he had last seen dead, as he thought, killed by his 
own hand. He tried to face him brazenly, but broke 
down and stood before him with hanging head and guilty 
eyes. 

‘‘ So,^^ said Daniel Leighan, “it is David come back 
again. We thought you were dead.^^ 

“ You hoped I was dead: say it out,^^ said David, with 
a ropy voice. 

“ Dead or alive, it makes no difference to me. Stay: 
you were in my debt when you went away. Have you 
come to settle that long-outstanding account?"^ 

David stepped into the room and shut the door behind 
him. 

“You have got something to say to me first, he said, 
still in a ropy and husky voice. “ Have it out now, and 
get it over. Something you^ve kept dark, eh?'^ 

“ What do you mean?^^ 

“ Outside they knew nothing about it. That was well 
done. Ho occasion to make a family scandal — and mo 
gone away and all — was there? Come, let us have it out, 
old man. Who robbed me of my land?^^ 

His words were defiant, but his eyes were uneasy and 

sus|)icmus^^^ther, fooled away his inheritance with drink 
and neglect?’^ 

“ Robbed me, I sayl”, 

“ If I had not bought your land some one else would. If 
you’ve come home in this disposition, David, you had bet- 
ter go away again as soon as you please. Don^t waste my 
time with foolish talk. 

“‘David^s gone,^ you said. ‘When he comes back, 
we"ll have it out. We won’t have a family scandal, " 

I am back, I thought you Averodeaclt'^ 


74 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


“ I am not dead, as you see/^ 

“ Well, go on. Say what you've got to say. I'll sit and 
listen. Come; I owe you so much. Pay it out, then." 

“David," said his uncle, quietly, “drink has evidently 
driven you off your head. Pamily scandal? What was 
there to hide? Good heavens! do you suppose that the 
whole of your life, with its profligacy and drunkenness, 
was not known to all the country-side? Why, your history 
is one long scandal. Things to hide? Why, the whole 
parish was so ashamed of you that it rejoiced when you 
went away." 

David heard this speech with a kind of stupefaction. 

“ Nephew David," his uncle went on, “ you may be sure 
that it was not my interest, considering that your land be- 
came mine, to hide anything to your discredit. It is a 
censorious world, but the worst of them can't blame my 
conduct toward you. " 

It is indeed a censorious world, but it is remarkable how 
every man persuades himself that the fishiest of his doings 
can not be handlM severely even by the most censorious of 
his fellows. In this matter of David, now, they said very 
cruel things indeed about Daniel's conduct; and it was not 
true that the parish rejoiced when David went away. Nor 
were they ashamed of him. Not at all; they knew him for 
a good-natured, easy-going young fellow, wdio gave freely 
when he had anything to give, drank freely, spent freely, 
and was only parsimonious in the matter of work; certainly 
he stinted himself in that particular, which made his 
uncle's crafty plans the easier to carry through. 

“ The law protected you, David, and you had the full 
benefit of law. When you borrowed the money of me, lit- 
tle by little, and when you gave me a mortgage on your 
land, the law stepped in to prevent any undue advantage. 
It protected you. What I did was by permission of the 
law. Your case was decided in a London court. I could 
not sell you up, and I was ordered to give you a term of six 
months, in which to pay principal or interest; failing that, 
I was permitted to foreclose without your having power of 
redemption. That is the law. You did not pay either in- 
terest or principal, and the land became mine. If you have 
any quarrel it is with the law of this land, not with me." 
Mr. Leighan made this statement in dry judicial tones 
which would have done credit to a Judge in Chancery. 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


75 


And thafc/^ he concluded, “ is all I have to sav to you, 

David. What are you staring like a stuck pig for? 

“ Oh, Lord!'" cried David, “ is it possible? What does 
he mean? Come, old man, don't bottle up. You can t 
do anything to me now, and I might do a great deal tor 
you; 1 might, if you didn't bottle up and bear malice. 
Come — you and me know — let's have it out. 

“ What do we two know? All I know is that you h^"^® 
been away for six years, that you come back in rags, that 
vou had a fit of some kind last night up at Joseph Exon s, 
and that you drank brandy and water until you were well- 
nigh drunk. Have you got any account to give of your- 
self?" 

“ Don't bottle up," David said, feebly. “ There's no- 
body here but you and me. I'll own up. And then I can 
help you as nobody else can— if you don t bottle up. If 
you do— but why should you? What s the good? Theie s 
nobody here but you and me. What the devil is the good 
of pretending that there's nothing? Did you ever forgive 
anybody in your lifer Do you think I believe you are going 
to forgive me — you of all men in the worldr 

“ Lord knows what this man means! Dayai, he said, 
impatiently, “ leave oft this nonsense about hiding and pre- 
tending and inferring^. One would think you had been 
murdering somebody." 

David sat down, staring with the blankest astonishment. 
He had by this time succeeded in impressing upon his brain 
the fixed convictioa that his ™ole kept lus ‘'f' 

sault a secret oat of regard for the family name, and he 
came prepared to bo submissive, 

to offer, in return for the secret being still kept, to give 

back to his uncle the long-lost box full of papers. And 

now, this conviction destroyed, he knew not what to think 
or what to say. i • 4.1^ 

The one thing which would have appeared to mm the 
most impossible had happened— that is, in fact, 
which always does happen. Nothing is really certain ex- 
cept the impossible. ^As for what is 
wliich the French proverb says is “„e- 

bannens every day, and we only notice it when it is some 
thing disagreeable. For instance: Tliere is a boy 
country town, quite an unknown and obscure boy, bom to 


•76 


TO CALL HER MIlCE* 


be at best a small solicitor or a general practitioner in his 
native place. Behold I after a few years this humble boy 
has become a popular novelist, a leader at the bar, a great 
medical specialist, the best actor in the world, the best 
poet, the best dramatist of his time, or, it may be, the 
most accomplished villain, impostor, cheat, and ruffian. 
These are impossible things, and they are always happen- 
iflg. Happily, the impossible generally comes by degrees, 
which is merciful, because else we should all lose our rea- 
son in contemplation of the coming impossibilities. Ghosts 
are among the things impossible, wliich is at once the 
strongest argument for their existence, and the reason why 
their sudden appearance always produces staggers. No 
ghost in the world or out of it could have caused David 
Leighan such astonishment as the conduct of his uncle. 

“ It canT be!^^ he said — “ it canT be! Uncle, you are 
playing some deep game with me; though what game, see- 
ing how useful I can be to you if I like, I canT under- 
stand. You are like a cat with a mouse. You are old, 
but you are foxy; youVe got a game of your own to play, 
and you think you^ll play that game low down. Come,^* 
he made one more effort to ascertain if the impossible really 
had happened — “ come. It^s like a game of bluff, aiiiT it? 
But let^s drop it, and play with the cards on tlie table. 
See, now, here^s my hand— I heard last night that you 
were alive and hearty, though I had every reason to think 
you were dead. I was quite sure you were dead — I knew 
you were dead. You know why 1 knew. Every night I 
was assured by yourself that you were dead. Come, now! 
Well, when I heard that you were alive and hearty, I said 
to myself, ‘To-morrow Iffl go and have it out with him 
\yhen all the people are at church and there^s nobody to 
listen;^ because they told me you could not remember^ — you 
know what.-’^ 

“ CouldnH remember? ITl have you to know, sir, that 
niy memory is as good as ever it was.^" 

“ Oh!^^ said David, “then you do remember every- 
thing?^^ 

“Of course I do.^^ 

“ Then, uncle, have it out.^^ 

“ AYhat the devil do you mean?^^ 

“.Let us talk open. I've never forgotten it. I have 
said to myself over and over again, ‘ I'm sorry I done it.' 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 77 

I wished I hadn^t done it, especially at night when your 
ghost came; who ever heard of a live man^s ghost?^" 

“ The man^s stark, staring madl^^ cried Daniel. 

“ Come, now. Either say, ‘ David, I forgive you, be- 
cause there was not much harm done after all; I forgive 
you if you^ll help me in the way that you only can help 
me;^ or else say, ‘ David, 1^11 bear malice all the days of 
my life. ^ Then we shall know where we are. 

I don^t understand one word you say. Stay!” A 
thought suddenly struck him. “ Stay! The last time I. 
set eyes on you it was on the morning you left (Jhallacombe, 
and on the same day that I met with my accident. The 
last time I set eyes on you was in this room. You cursed 
and swore at me. You went on your knees, and prayed 
the Lord in a most disrespectful manner to revenge you, as 
you put it. Do you wish me to forgive those idle, words? 
Man alive! you might as well ask me to forgive the last 
night’s thunder, lieproach yourself as much aayou please 
— I’m glad you’ve got such a tender conscience — but don’t 
think 1 am going out of my way to bear malice because you 
got into' a temper six years ago!” 

“ Then you do remember, uncle,” ho said, with a sigh 
of infinite satisfaction. The Impossible had really ha])- 
pened. 

“ Well, I thought you ' would remember, and bear mal- 
ice. It was the last you saw of me, you see — and the last 
I saw of you. ’’ 

“ Yes, it was the last I saw of you.” 

David laughed, not the hysterical laugh of last night, 
but a low laugh of sweet satisfaction and secret enjoyment. 

“Well, uncle, since you don’t bear malice— Lord! I 
thought you’d be fiying in my face — there’s no harm done, 
is there? And now we can be friends again, I suppose? 
And if it comes to foxiness, perhaps it will be my turn to 
play fox. ” 

‘‘ Play away, David — play away. ” 

“ I’ve come home, you see ” — David planted his feet 
more firmly and leaned forward, one hand on each knee— 
“ I’ve come home.” 

“ In rags. ” 

“In poverty and rags. I’ve got nothing but two or 
three pounds. AVhen they are gone, perhaps before, I shall 
want more money. The world is everywhere full of rogues 


.78 


TO CALL HEE MIKE. 


— quite full of rogues — besides laud thieves like yourself, 
and there isn^t enough work to go round. Mostly they live 
like you, by plundering and robbing. 

“ Find work, then. In this country if you donH work 
you won^t get any money. Do you think you are the more 
likely to get money out of me by calling names.^^’’ 

‘‘ 'Well, you see, uncle, I think I shall find a way to get 
some money out of you. 

‘‘ Not one penny — not one penny, David, will you get.^^ 
There was a world of determination in Mr. Leighan when 
it came to refusing money. 

“ It^s natural that you should say so, to begin with.^^ 
His manner had now quite changed. He began by being 
confused, hesitating, and shamefaced; he was now assured, 
and even braggart. ‘‘ I expected as much. You would 
rather see your nephew starve than give him a penny. 
You’ve robbed him of liis land; you’ve driven him out of 
his house; and when he conies back in rags, yon tell him 
he may go and starve.” 

‘‘ Words don’t hurt, David,” his uncle rei3lied, quietly. 
“ I am too old to be moved by any words. Now if you 
have nothing more to say, go.” 

David sat doggedly. He had always been dogged and 
obstinate. His uncle looked at him curiously, as if study- 
ing his character. 

“David,” he said, presently, “you were a bad boy at 
school, where they ought to have fiogged it out of you. 
You were a bad son to your father, who ought to have cut 
you off with a shilling. You were a bad farmer when you 
got your farm: you were a drunkard, a betting man, and a 
sporting man. If I hadn’t taken your land, a stranger 
would have had it. Now it’s kept in the family. Years 
ago I thought to give you a lesson, and if you reformed, to 
give it back to you in my will. I now perceive that you 
are one of those who never reform. I have left it — else- 
where. ” 

“ Go on,” said David; “ I like to hear you talk.” 

“ The old house at Berry— your old house— is turned 
into two cottages. ^ One of those cottages is empty. If 
you mean to stay in the parish, you can live in it if you 
like, rent free, for a time — that is, until you get into work 
again or I find a tenant. If you choose to earn money, 
you can; there are always jobs to be done by a handy man. 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


79 


If you will not work, you must starve. Now that is all I 
will do for you. When you are tired of Challaconibe, you 
can go away again. That is my last word, nephew. He 
turned away, and began to busy himself again among his 
papers. 

“ After the acccident and the loss of those papers you 
were senseless for three days. And after that you got par- 
alysis. Why, what was all this, but a judgment on you for 
your conduct to your own flesh and blood?'’ ^ 

Kubbish!^" 


David said no more. Those best, acquainted with him 
would have understood from the expression of his face that 
his mind was laboriously grappling with a subject not yet 
clear to him. He was, in fact, just beginning to be aware 
of a very foxy game which he might play with his uncle, 
though as yet he only dimly saw the rules of that game. It 
was a new game, too, quite one of his own invention, and 
one which would at the same time greatly please and stimu- 
late his uncle, whom he meant to be his adversary. He 
said nothing more, but he sat doggedly and tried to work 
out the rules of that game. 

Presently Mary came home from church, and with her 
George Sid cote and Will. They found David sitting with 
his uncle, but the' old man was reading the paper, and 
David was sitting silent, thinking slowly. 

“ Mary,^^ said David, ‘‘ you donT remember me, I sup- 


You are my cousin David. Of course I remember you, 
David, though you are altered a good deal.'’^ She gave him 
her hand. “ All the people are talking about your re- 
turn. ” 

Then George and William shook hands with him cheer- 
fully and brotherly. 

“ Why, David, said George, ‘‘ we must rig you out a 
little better than this. Come home with Will and me."" 

David turned sullenly to his uncle. 

‘‘ Pve one thing more to say. All of you may hear what 
that is. He offers me a laborer"s cottage to live in, and a 
laborer"s work to do, and a laborer"s wage for pay, on my 
own lands — my own that he stole, this old man here, sit- 
ting struck by a judgment in his chair. The next time I 
come here — ^you may all take notice and bear witness — the 


80 


TO CALL HER 3riHE. 


question may not be how little I may be offered, but how 
much I shall take/"’ 

So far had he got in his understanding of the game that 
was to be played. 

“ How much,^^ he repeated, with a chuckle — “ how 
much I shall take.^^ 

“ Dear me!'" said his uncle. “ This is very interesting. 
And how are you. Will? when did you come down? and 
how is your writing business? Take David away, George; 
I am afraid you'll find him very tedious — very tedious in- 
deed." 


CHAPTER IX. 

AT SIDCOTE. 

We took David away with us; but the old man was 
right; he was insufferably tedious. To begin with, his 
mind seemed absorbed; he answered our questions shortly, 
and showed no curiosity or interest in us, and pretended no 
pleasure at seeing us again; he was lumpish and moody. 
In fact, though at the time one could not know, he was 
laboriously arranging in his mind the revenge which he 
was about to take upon his uncle; and he was one of those 
men who can not think of more than one thing at a time. 

“ Mother," said George, “I've brought David Leighan 
tb dinner. He came home last night." 

The old lady gave him her hand, without the least ap- 
liearance of surprise that David had returned in so tattered 
a condition. To be sure, Joseph Exon's kindly offices had 
made a difference, yet he looked rough and ragged still; 
his wanderings had clearly ended in failure. 

“ You are welcome, David," she said. “ You will tell 
us after dinner some of your adventures. I hope you are 
come to settle again among your own people. " 

“ My own people," he said, “ have been so kind that I 
am likely to settle among them." 

“ I will take David upstairs, mother," said George, 
“ for a few moments; then we shall be ready." 

Everything at Sidcote looked as if it had always been ex- 
actly the same, and had never changed. In winter, with 
the snow lying on the tors >(ind the lanes knee-deep in 
mud, Hidcote looked m if it w;is always >Yinter, In the 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


81 


summer, with the old, old garden ablaze with flowers, and 
the green apples turning red or yellow on the old branches, 
it seemed as if it must be always summer. In the parlor, 
where Mrs. Sidcote sat, the Bible before her, it seemed as 
if the dear old lady must have been always old and silver- 
haired, certainly she must always have been gentle and 
gracious. A farmer^s daughter, a farmer’s wife, and a 
farmer’s mother — can such be a gentlewoman? It is borne 
in uponjne, my brothers, more and more, and the longer 
I live, (that gentleness doth not consist in gentle blood. ^ 
Some noble lords there are of whom one has heard — but 
the thing may be false — that tl\ey are mere rufiians, de- 
vourers, and tramplers upon virtue and fair honor; some 
noble ladies, it is whispered — but, indeed, I know them not 
— are mere seekers of pleasure, selfish, frivolous, and heart- 
less. Whereas certainly in all ranks of life there are those 
who naturally follow the things which make for unselfish- 
ness, sweetness, sacrifice, and well-doing. Mrs. Sidcote 
was one of these. A little pleasant-voiced and pleasant- 
looking dame — now sixty years old or thereabouts, who 
will, I make no manner of doubt, live to be ninety-five at 
least. 

The window of her room looks upon the garden, which 
is, as I have said, ancient, and full of old trees and old- 
fashioned flowers, set and planted in antique fashion. The 
house is old too — built of stone, with low rooms— two- 
storied, and thatched. Between the house and the road is 
the farm-yard, so that one can not get to the garden gate 
without taking observation of George’s pigs and poultry. 

When they came down-stairs, David presented a little 
more of his old appearance.* There remained a certain 
slouching manner which suggested the tramp, and the 
sidelong look, half of suspicion, half of design, which is 
also common to the tramp; but as yet we knew nothing of 
his past life and’ adventures. George had fitted him with 
a clean shirt and collar— it is only at such times that one 
recognizes the great civilizing influence of the white collar, 
a neck-tie, socks— actually he had not worn socks, he casu- 
ally told (ieorge, for five years — a pair^ of boots somewhat 
too large for him, because George’s size of boots was pro- 
portionate to his length of limb, and a ] 30 cket-handker- 
chief. Idle pocket-handkerchief is even a greater civilizing 
inihuuice than tho collar. It is not in sight, and yet if one 


82 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


has a pocket-handkerchief one must necessarily — one can 
not choose but to — live up to it. But a change of clothes 
does not immediately produce a change of manner ; it takes 
time for these to work. David looked moody and resent- 
ful. 

When he was dressed he sat down to dinner. 

Then it was that we made a very painful discovery. Our 
friend, we found, had entirely forgotten the simplest rules 
of manners, the very simplest. It was clear that he must 
have gone down very low indeed in the social scale in order 
to get at those habits which he now exhibited. Were they 
acquired in the Pacific, or in Australia, or in America, 
where, as we afterward learned, David had spent his years 
of exile? I think in none of these places, because, though 
there are plenty of unsuccessful Englishmen everywhere, it 
is not reported that they make haste to throw off the man- 
ners of decent folk. He lost his manners because he had 
lost his self-respect, which is a very different thing from 
losing your money. Let us refrain from details, and ob- 
serve only in general terms that he helped himself to food 
with fingers as well as with fork. After all, fingers came 
before forks, which is the reason why forks have four 
prongs. It shall suffice to mention that, the principal dish 
being a pair of roast fowls, he munched the bones and 
threw them on the floor; that he helj)ed himself, with a 
wolfish haste, as 'if there was not enough to go round, and 
every man must grab what he could; and, like a savage or 
a wild beast, he looked about him jealously while he was 
eating, as if some one might snatch his food from him. 
During the operation of taking his food he said nothing, 
nor did he reply if he was' addressed; and he eat enough 
for six men, and he drank as if he would never get tired of 
George’s cider, which is an excellent beverage, but decep- 
tive' if you are so ill-advised as to think it has no strength. 

The old lady began to question him; but David either 
did not hear, being wholly engrossed with his feeding, or 
else was too sulky and bearish to reply. Therefore she 
ceased to try; and we all sat looking on with pallid cheeks 
and ruined appetites, pretending not to notice that our 
guest had become a savage. Can one ever forget the way 
in which that delicate currant and raspberry pie — in Lon- 
don they call it “ tart ” — was, with its accompaniment of 
cream, dainty, rural, and poetical, mercilessly wolfed by 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


83 


this greedy Orson? As soon as possible, Mrs. Sidcote, who 
usually sat and talked awhile after dinner, withdrew, and 
left us to battle with our guest. 

After dinner, George produced a bottle of port. 

“ There is not much left,'’^ he said, with a sigh. “ My 
father’s cellar is nearly finished, but it will last my time. 
We will drink the last bottle together. Will, on my last day 


in Sidcote.” 

At all events, we drank wery little of that bottle, for 
David clutched the decanter, poured out a tumblerful, 
drank it off, and then another tumbler. Now two tum- 
blerfuls of port, after a quart or so of cider, is a good allow- 
ance for any man. When David had taken his second tum- 
bler he made as if he would say something. Perhaps he 
had it in his mind to say something gracious, for his lips 
moved, but no voice was heard. Then he got up and 
reeled to the sofa, on which he threw himself like a log, 
and was asleep in a moment. He was like an animal filled 
with food, and must sleep it off. It was remarkable that 
he lay in the attitude most affected by the sleeping tramp 
—namely, on his face. You will generally find the tramp 
who rests by the way-side sleeping with his face on Ins 
arms. Perhaps because this position affords more, rest in 
a short time than any other; perhaps because it saves the 
shoulders from the hardness of the ground. David there- 
fore lay in this attitude, and breathed heavily. 

‘‘ We have not had much of the bottle, have we, old 
man?” said George. ‘‘Never mind; let us go into the 
garden and have a pipe in the shade. ” , . t 

We took chairs with us, and sat in the old-fashioned gar- 
den of Sidcote, under a gnarled and ancient apple-tree. 

“ Our David,” I said, “ was always inclined to be lout- 
ish. He has been developing and^cultivating that gift for 
six years— with a pleasing result.” ^ 

“ fdiere is something on his mind,” said George. Per- 
haps he will tell us what it is; perhaps not. David was 
never particularly open about^ himself. Strange that he 
should begin by looking for his uncle’s grave! Avhy did 
he think that he was dead?” 

“ He believed what he hoped, no doubt. 

“ In the evening, Harry Rabjahns tells me, he had a 
kind of fit—a hysterical fit of laughing and crying— m the 
inn.” 


84 


TO CALL HER MUifE. 


That was perhaps because he had learned that his uncle 
was still alive/^ This was indeed the case, though not in 
the sense 1 intended. 

And this morning, the first day of his return, he begins 
with a row with his uncle. Well, there is going to be mis- 
chief at Gratnor.’’^ 

‘‘ Why, what mischief can there be?^^ 

“Idon^t know. David went away cursing his uncle. 
After six years he comes back cursing him again. When 
a man broods over a wrong for six years, mischief does 
generally follow. First of all, the old man will do nothing 
for him. Do you understand that? There was a solid ob- 
stinacy in his eyes while he listened to David. Nothing is 
to be got out of him. What will David do?^^ 

“ He will go away again, I suppose, unless he takes 
farm- work. 

‘‘ David is as obstinate as his uncle. And he is not alto- 
gether a fool, although he did take to drink and ruined 
himself. And there will be mischief. ” 

“ George, old man, I return to my old thought. If you 
and Mary marry without old Dan^s consent, her fortune 
goes to David. Does David know?^^ 

“ I should think not.^^ 

To which of the two would the old man prefer to hand 
over that money?^^ 

‘ ‘ To Mary, certainly. 

“ So I think. Then donT you see that some good may 
come out of the business after all?^^ 

“ It may come, but too late to save Sidcote. He means 
to have Sidcote. My days here are numbered. Well, it is 
a pity after five hundred years — he looked around at the 
inheritance about to pass away from him — only a farm of 
three hundred acres, but his father^s and his great-great- 
grandfather’s — and he was silent for a moment. “ As for 
work, what would I grudge if I could kee]) the old place! 
But I know that over at Gratnor there sits', watching and 
waiting his chance, the man who means to have niy land, 
and will have it before the end of the year.” 

“ Patience, George. Anything may happen.” 

“ He is a crafty and a dangerous man. Will. Wo can 
say here what we can not say in Mary’s presence. He is 
more crafty and more dangerous now that he is paralyzetl 
and can not get about among his fields than he was in the 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


85 


old days. He can not get at me by the same arts as he 
employed for David. He can not persuade me to drink^ 
and to sign agreements and borrow money when I am 
drunk. But the bad times have done for me what drink 
did for David. 

So we talked away the afternoon in a rather gloomy 
spirit. Life is no more free from sharks in the country 
than in the town; there are in Arcadia, as well as in Lon- 
don, vultures, beasts, and birds of prey, who sit and watch 
their chance to rend the helpless. 

“ And so,^^ he said, summing up, I shall have to part 
with the old family place, and begin in the world again; 
go out as David went out, and return, perhaps, as he re- 
turned. 

“No, George; some things are possible, but not proba- 
ble. That you should come back as David has come back 
is not possible. 

At that moment the man of whom we S 2 )oke came slowly 
out of the house, rubbing his eyes. 

“ When you are among the blacks, he said, “ you never 
get enough to eat. And as for their drink, especially the 
stuff they call orora, it is enough to make the dog sick. 

“ Then you have been among the blacks, David It 
was the first hint he had given of his adventures. 

He lighted his pipe and began to smoke it lazil}^, leaning 
against the porch. Then he talked, with intervals of puff- 
ing at the pipe. 

“ Six years ago,’^ he said — “ six years it was, come Octo- 
ber the twentieth, that I left Ohallacombe with £50 for all 
the money I had in the world. A^es, £50, instead of Berry 
Down that I\1 begun with. AAlio^d got the laiidr'’^ He 
pointed in the direction of Gratnor with a gesture which 
was meant for hatred and unforgivingness. “ Ha! after I 
went away it seems that he had an ugly accident. No OMe 
knows the cause of that accident."'^ He grinned as if he 
was pleased to think of it. “ Quite a judgment — quite. 
A clear judgment, I call it. Where did I go first now? I 
took passage at Falmouth for New York, and there I 
stayed: it^s a fine town for them as have got money, full 
of bars and drinking saloons, and — and — all sorts of pretty 
things. So I stayed there till all the money was gone — 
whaFs the good of £50? Better enjoy it, and have done 
with it. I imide it last a good bit — two months and more. 


8G 


TO CALL HEK MIKE. 


Then I looked about for work. Well, it’s a terrible hard 
place when you’ve got no money, and as for work, the Irish 
get all there is. By that I’d made a few friends, and we 
thought we’d go westward. There was a dozen or more of 
us, and we moved on together, sometimes getting odd jobs, 
sometimes legging it, and sometimes taking the cars. 
When there was no work, and I don’t know that any of 
them were anxious — not to say anxious — to get work, we 
tramped around among the farms, and sometimes among 
the houses where the women are left all alone, and the men 
go off to town. It isn’t easy for a woman to say ‘ No ’ 
when a dozen men come to the door and there isn’t another 
man within a mile. Sometimes we would go to a saloon 
and play monte. Sometimes we would do a trade. My 
pals were a clever lot, and I often wonder why they took 
me with them. A clever lot, they were. But the band 
got broken by degrees. One got shot for kissing a farmer’s 
wife; and another got hanged for stealing a horse; and 
another got his two legs amputated after a row over the 
cards. The odd thing was ”■ — here David looked inexpressible 
things — “ that all the men had done something except me. 
That was curious, now. You wouldn’t expect in this coun- 
try if you met a gang of tramps that they’d all done some- 
thing, would you? All but me. They were anxious to 
know what I’d done. I told them what I ought to have 
done, and they agreed with me. Some of them were for 
my going home at once and doing' it. Well, it might have 
been a year, and it might have been a dozen years, before 
those of us who were left found ourselves at San Francisco, 
where we jiarted company. I couldn’t settle down very 
well — I don’t know why. If a man begins wandering, he 
keeps on wandering, I suppose. How can a man settle 
down who’s got no land of his own to settle on? So I — I 
moved on, after a bit. It was a pity to part when one had 
made friends, but there — it couldn’t be helped.” 

He stopped at this point, to collect himself, I suppose; 
or perhaps to consider what i^ortions of his autobiography 
would be best repressed. We looked at each other in amaze- 
ment. By his own statement — it was not a confession: 
there was no sense of shame about the man — by his own 
unblushing statement he had, only a few weeks after leav- 
ing England, where he had once been a substantial yeo- 
man, the companion and equal of respected, lionorable 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


87 


men, willingly consorted with a gang of roughs, who had 
all done something, and gone with them tramping along 
the roads of the States. How can a man fall so quickly? 

“ Well,^^ David resumed, “ I was bound to move on 
somewhere. Presently I heard of a ship that was going to 
the Pacific, and I went aboard as carpenter, and we sailed 
about. It wasn^’t a lucky ship, and she was wrecked one 
night in a storm, and all hands lost — except me. At least, 
I suppose so, because I never saw nor heard of any of them 
afterward. I was thrown ashore on an island called, as I 
learned afterward. New Ireland, and the people were going 
to spear me and eat me, when a German saved my life. 
Baron Sergius something his name was. He could talk 
their language, and they worshiped him. I stayed there 
perhaps a year — there^s no way of telling how the time 
goes. Then a ship came and took me off. The baron was 
left behind, and I dare say he’s eaten by this time. This 
ship was unlucky too: the captain set fire to her one night, 
and we had to take to the boats, where they were all 
starved to death, except the mate and me.’^ 

‘‘Good Lord!’’ cried George, “here are adventures 
enough for a volume; and he reels them off as if they were 
quite common occurrences!” 

“ They picked us up, and brought us to Sydney; we had 
bad weather on the way, and were like to have foundered.” 

“ Do you always bring disaster to every vessel that you 
go aboard of?” I asked. 

“ But we got in safe, and — and — well, that’s all: I came 
home.” 

“And what are you going to do now you are come 
home, David?” 

“ I will tell you, George, in a day or two. The old man 
says he will do nothing for me — we’ll see to that presently. 
He’s turned the old farm-house at Berry into two cottages, 
and the buildings are falling to pieces. Says I can take 
up my quarters in one of the cottages, if I like: that is lib- 
eral, isn’t it? And I am to earn my living how I can; 
that’s generous, isn’t it?” 

' “ Try conciliation, David.” 

“ No, Will; I think I know a better plan than concilia- 
tion. ” 

This was all that David told us. We saw, indeed, very 
little of him after this day. He took what wo gave him 


88 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


without a word of thanks, and he did not pretend the least 
interest in either of us or our doings or our welfare. Yet 
he had known both of us all his life, and he was but five or 
six years older. A strange return ! Knowing now all that 
I know, I am certain that he was dazed and confounded, 
first at finding his uncle alive, and next at the reception he 
met with. He was thinking of these things and of that 
new plan of his, yet imperfect, by which he could wreak 
revenge upon his uncle. This made him appear duller and 
more stupid than was his nature. 

We sat waiting for more experiences, but none came. 
How, for instance, one would have been pleased to inquire, 
came an honest Devonshire man to consort with a gang of 
fellows who had all “done something, and were roving 
and tramping about the country ready to do something 
else. Before David lost his land he used to drink, but not 
with rogues and tramps. Yet now he confessed without 
any shame to having been their companion — a tramp and 
vagabond himself, and the associate of rogues. By what 
process does a man descend so low in the short space of two 
or three weeks as to join such a company? 1 looked curi- 
ously at his face; it was weather-beaten and bronzed, but 
there was no further revelation in the lowering and moody 
look. 

“I dare say, he went on, “that you were surprised 
when I came to look for his grave ?^^ 

“ It is not usual, I said, “ to ask for the graves of liv- 
ing men. 

“I was so certain that he was dead,^Mie explained, 
“ that I never thought to ask. Quite certain I was; why 
— here he stopped abruptly — “ I was so certain that I was 
going to ask what it was he died of. Yes; I wanted to 
know how he was killed. 

“ You said some one told you that he was dead. Who 
was that?^^ 

“I will tell you now — not that you wiir believe me; but 
it is true. He told me himself that he was dead. 

“ I do not say, David, that this isjrnpossible, because 
men may do anything. Permit me to remark, however, 
that you were in America, and your uncle was in England. 
That must have made it diftiQult for your micle to talk with 
you.'^ 

Tlmt is he replied* “ Wiud- 1 mean is, thiit every 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


89 


V 

night — it began after Vd been in New York and got 
through my money — every night, after I went to sleep, his 
cursed ghost used to come and sit on my bed. ‘ David, ^ 
he said, ‘ Tm dead.^ A lot more he said that you don^t 
want to hear. ‘ David, come home quick, ^ he said. 
‘David, 1^11 never leave you in 2 ^eace until you do come 
home,* he said. Every night, mind you. Not once now 
and again, but every night. That^s the reason why I came 
home. The ghost has left off coming now. 

“ This is truly wonderful.^’ 

“ What did he do it for?’"’ asked David, angrily. “ ITeM 
got my land. Well, as for — as for — what haj)pened, my 
score wasn’t paid off by that. 

“ What did happen?’^ 

“Never mind. He'd got my land still; and I was a 
tramp. What did he want to get by it?^^ 

“ You donT mean, David, that your uncle deliberately 
liaunted you every night? No one ever heard of a living 
man^s ghost haunting another living man. A dead man^s 
ghost may haunt a living man, j)erhaps, though I am not 
I)repared to back that statement with any experiences of 
my own. Perhaps, too, a living man ^s 'ghost may haunt a 
dead man; that would be only fair. Turn and turn about, 
you see. But for a live uncle to haunt a live nephew — no, 
David, no." 

“ He is crafty enough for anything. I donT care who 
done it,-’^ said David, “ it was done. Every night it Avas 
done. And thaPs why I came home again. And since 
lie^s fetched me home on a fooPs errand, he^s got to keep 
me.^^ 

“ But it wasn^t his fault that the ghost came. Man 
alive! he wanted his own ghost for himself. Consider, he 
couldnT get on without it!" 

“ He brought me home, and he^s got to keep me," said 
David, doggedly. Then he put on his hat and slowly 
slouched away. 

“ He is going to drink at the inn,^^ said George. “ I am 
glad he had the grace not to get drunk here. Will, there 
is something uncanny about the man. Why should he 
have this horrible haunting dream every night?’ ^ 

“ Pemorse for a crime which he wished he had com- 
mitted, perhaps. An odd combination, but possible. If 
he had murdered his uncle he might have been haunted in 


90 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


this way. Wishes he had murdered him, you see. Imag- 
ination supplies the rest.^"' 

“ My opinion, Will, is that in the band of pals tramping 
across the North American Continent, the exception spoken 
of by David did not exist. They had all, every one, with- 
out exception, ‘ done something. ^ And now, lad, we^ll 
walk over to Gratnor and have tea with Mary. 


CHAPTER X. 

GRIMSPOUHD. 

Ok the next day, Monday, a very singular and inexplica- 
ble thing happened — nay, two singular things— the full 
meaning of which I did not comprehend until accident — 
old-fashioned people would call it Providence — ^put the 
solution into my hands. 

There is one place near Challacombe which those love 
most who know it best. Especially is it desirable when the 
air is still, and the sun burns in the valley, and in the nar- 
row lanes around the slopes and outer fringe of the great 
moor. For my own part, it is like a holy place of pilgrim- 
age, whither one goes time after time, and never tires of it, 
for refreshment of the soul and the eye. I left Sidcote at 
eight, before the morning freshness was quite gone from 
the air, though the sun at the end of J uly has then already 
been up for four hours, and followed the road which leads 
through Hey tree Gate past Hey tree Farm on the left, and 
the coppice on the right, where there was a solitary chiff- 
chaff singing all by himself on the top of a tree. The road 
leads to Widdicombe-on-the-Moor — the last place in these 
islands where the devil appeared visibly, having much 
wrath, before he sent the lightning upon the church and 
killed many of the congregation. After Heytree, the road 
runs for the best part of a mile over the open down where 
Mr. Leighan met his accident, until one comes to He wed- 
stone Gate, where there is another farm-house, and where 
he who would stand upon the place of which I speak must 
turn to the right and follow the stream, which soon grows 
narrower until it becomes a trickling rill falling down a 
steep hill-side, and the rill becomes a thread of water, and 
the hill grows steeper, and the thread disappears and be- 
comes a green line leading to still greener quags, higher 


V 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


91 


and higher up the hills. Ifc is an immense great hog^s 
back of a hill, three miles long from end to end ; the ridge 
at the top is not steep and narrow, but half a mile broad 
at least, covered with heath and heather and whortleberry 
bushes. There is no path across Hamil Down, but this flat 
plain is the most glorious place in the world — even better 
than the long ridge of Malvern — to walk along on a warm 
summer day. The turf, before you reach the top, is dry 
and spongy to the tread; it is covered with the little yellow 
flowers of the tormentilla; here and there is gorse with its 
splendid yellow, and among the gorse you may find the 
^iretty pink blossoms of the dodder, if you look for it. If 
you climb higher the wind begins to whistle in your ears, 
which is the first sign of being upon a mountain-side. You 
may sit on Primrose Hill all the year round, and the wind 
will never convert your ear into anHColian harp; but climb 
the side of Helvellyn or walk over the Sty Head Pass, and 
before you have gone very far the old familiar ringing whistle 
begins, though the air below seemed still and the breeze 
had dropped. When you have reached the top, turn to 
the right and walk to King's Tor, the northern point of 
Ilamil Down, and then sit down. There was a barrow here 
once, and at some unknown time it was opened, and now 
lies exposed and desecrated. AVithin is the round grave, 
cased with stones brought up the hill froni below and ranged 
in a cup-like shape, in which they laid the body of the 
great, illustrious, and never-to-be-forgotten king. I will 
show you presently the place where he died, from which 
they brought him in long procession— tlie men and women 
alike long-haired, fair-skinned, and ruddy-cheeked— all 
mourning and lamenting. 1 know not the tunes of the 
hymns they sung, but 1 fear there was sacrifice at the 
grave-side, and that the soul of that kin was accompanied 
by many indignant souls of those who were slam to boar 
him company. It was a long time ago, however, and the 
thing itself wants confirmation; wherefore let us shed no 
tears. They have laid open the grave and taken away the 
torquils, bracelets, and crown of the king. Then, if there 
were any bones of him, they left them uncovered, so that 
the rains fell upon them and the frosts tore them apa,rt, 
and now there is but a little dust, which you can not dis- 
tinguish from the earth that lies around the grave. It is a 
high place, however, and beside it are bowlders, where one 


92 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


can sit and look around. On the north-east is Ease Down, 
with its. long slopes, and the granite pile upon its highest 
point; and below Ease Down, Manaton Tor; above the 
church, and below Manaton, a spur runs out between the 
valleys, and there are Latchell Tor, Nympenhole, and the 
liidge. Below Nympenhole stands Gratnor, where Mary 
is at this moment. I know it well, and I can fancy that I 
see her making a fruit pie for dinner and a cake for tea. 
I am sure that she has a white apron on — one of the long 
things up to the throat — her sleeves are rolled up, and she 
stands before the board with the rolling-pin and the pas- 
try, taking great j)ains with the cake, because we are going 
to Gratnor to have tea witli her, and after tea we shall walk 
along the Kidge and talk. Poor Mary! must she give up 
Challacombe and Sidcote, and go far afield with George in 
search of kinder fortune? 

Beyond Manaton Tor you look down upon the rocky 
sides of Lustleigh Cleeve; turning your head to the east 
and southeast there rises before you a glorious pile of hills, 
one beyond the other. I say not that they are mountains, 
but I want no fairer hills. There is Ilayne Down, with its 
bowlders thrown down the front, as if they were pebbles 
shaken from a young giant niaiden^s apron — this is, I be- 
lieve, the scientific and geological exjfianation of their ori- 
gin; there is Hound Tor, with its granite castle; behind it 
Hey Tor, with its two great black pyramids; on the right 
of Hey Tor there are Pippin Tor and Honeybag. Six 
miles away, hidden among the hills and woods, is AViddi- 
combe Church, the cathedral of the moor. Turn to the 
west, and eight miles away you can see Kes Tor, where 
still stand the foundations of the houses built by those who 
jfiaced the bowlders in a circle, and filled them in with turf, 
and then, with branches and a larch pole and more turf, 
made the place weather-tight and snug. AYith no chimney, 
and a cheerful fire of crackling sticks and plenty of smoke, 
they made themselves truly comfortable on winter nights, 
though somewhat red and inflamed about the eyes in the 
morning. South of Kes Tor there stretches the open moor, 
bounded by more tors in every direction. We are among 
the everlasting hills. A thousand years in their sight is 
but as yesterday. As these tors stand now, the grass climb- 
ing slowly over the rocks, so they stood a thousand years 
ago — the grass a few inches lower down, the rocks the 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


93 


same, the slopes the same. Overhead a hawk, poised just 
as one sees now; the rabbits ran about the heather just as 
they do now; and, as now, the shifting shadows coursed 
across the slopes, and the curves of the hill-sides changed 
continually as the sun like a giant rejoiced to run his 
course. We come and go, and are no more seen; but the 
hills remain. I suppose that after millions of years they 
too will disappear, with the light of the sun, and the sweet 
air, and the green herbs, and tiowers, and all the creatures; 
and then there will be darkness and death for all creation. 
But the Hand which started the myriads of worlds and set 
them steadfast in their orbits can re-create them and make 
a newer and a better world, of which this is but a shadow. 

There was not a soul upon Hamil Down except myself. 
There never is, exqept sometimes about this season when 
the whortleberries are ripe, or when a shepherd comes in 
search of his Dartmoor flocks, or a wayfarer crosses from 
Challacombe over the hill, instead of coming round the 
road ; or when one comes this way who knows the moor, 
and is not afraid of being belated, and ventures to make a 
short-cut from Post Bridge — built of three flat slabs of 
stone by the nameless king who was buried on this tor — by 
way of Vitifer to Challacombe or Mnreton-Hampstead. 

I had the whole of the great flat ridge to myself as I left 
King^s Tor and walked briskly southward, avoiding the 
green quagmires which lie here and there, a pitfall to the 
many. Half-way along this upland plain there stands an 
upright stone. It is not a cross; nor is it, so far as one can 
judge, a tombstone. It is simjdy an upright stone of gray 
granite, six feet high. Beside it lies a small flat stone; it 
is called the Gray Wether. Who put it up, and why it was 
put up, not the oldest inhabitant can tell. Indeed, the 
oldest inhabitant, who was the last survivor in Grims- 
l^ouiid, died there about two thousand years ago, and there 
has been no oldest inhabitant since then. 

I stood beside the Gray AVether Stone, making these and 
other admirable reflections. I am not quite certain whether 
I really did make them; but when one is a writer of lead- 
ing articles, it is easy to fall into a literary way of thinking, 
and to shape one’s thoughts into an effective line. How- 
ever, I was shaken out of my meditations by a very singu- 
lar accident. I had stood on the same spot dozens of times 
before this: any day the same accident might have hap- 


94 


TO CALL HER 


pened, yet it did not. The accident waited, as accidents 
always do, until it might produce a coincidence. No one 
can explain coincidences; yet they happen continually — to 
every one of us who is on watch, one or two every day. 

AVhat happened was this. Between the upright stone 
and the flat stone, the edges of the latter being irregular, 
there is, at a certain place, an aperture or recess., 

I carried with me a stick, on which I was leaning. Now, 
by this kind of chance which we call accident, in changing 
my position I stuck the point of the stick into the aperture 
— a thing of which one would have been hardly conscious 
but for an unmistakable clicking which followed, as of 
coins. Is there anything in the world which more excites 
and stimulates the blood than the discovery of hidden 
treasure? In ancient countries there are. men who go about 
forever haunted with the idea of finding hidden treasure — 
in Italy, in Syria, in Greece, in Asia Minor — wherever 
ancient civilizations have passed away, leaving drachmas or 
shekels in buried pots, waiting for the lucky finder. One 
shudders to think of the eagerness with which I fell upon 
this imaginary hoard. No doubt, I hastened to conjecture, 
it was an ancient treasure which I was about to discover; 
a pile of Eoman coins with the head of some almost forgot- 
ten emperor upon them; a heap of early Saxon coins — 
angels, marks, doubloons, rose-nobles at the very least. 
The opening, I found, was too small for a nian^s hand — 
perhaps a small six-and-a-quarter might have got in. If 
Mary were here — but Mary^s hand is six-and-a-half, as be- 
comes the hand of the capable house- wife. If man^s fingers 
were longer, like those of the monkey with the prehensile 
tail, one of our ancestors might have found and fished out 
the coins in no time, and spent them recklessly in Kentish 
cobs, or the home-grown crab. Perhaps the flat stone 
might be moved? No; the liands which propped up the 
Gray Wether were mighty hands; perhaps the same which 
threw that apron full of bowlders over the face of Hayne 
Down. The flat stone was immovable. Perhaps with the 
stick I could at least feel the coins? Yes, I made them 
rattle. The position now became that of Tantalus. Who 
ever heard before of a buried treasure only twelve inches 
deep which could be felt bpt not dragged out? Why, it 
was not only a buried treasure, but perhaps a vast treasure; 
a collection of priceless coins, antique, unique, throwing 


TO CALL HER HIKE. 


95 

light upon dark places in history; giving personality and 
life to what had been before but a name or a string of 
names, the portraits and effigies of long-forgotten emperors 
and kings. I would have that treasure somehow. Many 
plans suggested themselves; sticky stuff on the end of a 
twig to which the coins might adhere, lazy tongs, common 
tongs, pincers— I would go back to Sidcote and lug up a 
sackful of instruments; I would go to More ton -Hampstead 
and borrow another sackful of surgical instruments; I 
would even get a couple of stone-masons and saw that stone 
through. I would have that treasure. 

One would not be without a conscience, but it sometimes 
sadly interferes with the iDilgrirn when paths of pleasant- 
ness open out before him; and here the voice of Conscience 
said, in her cold and unsympathetic way, “Thereis.no 
rood of English ground but has its Seigneur. The Lord of 
the Manor in which stands Ilamil Down is the Prince of 
Wales. After all your trouble you will have to take the 
treasure to H.E II. “I'll be hanged if I do," was the 
reply of the natural man. “ YouTl be conveyed to the 
Peninsula of Purbeck marble if you don't," said Con- 
science, again. 

It is no use arguing with a conscience which is at once 
persistent and sensitive. I therefore grumpily stuck the 
stick once more into the recess and poked about again. 
The coins rattled merrily. Never in my whole life have I 
so ardently desired to touch, to handle, to examine, to pos- 
sess this unknown and unseen treasure. 

Now when I took out the stick again a bit of yellow 
leather showed for a moment just hooked up by the ferule 
as far as the light penetrated. The sight of the leather in- 
spired me with a faint hope. Again I poked about, but 
for some time in vain, until I hit upon a most ingenious 
and crafty contrivance. Like' all really great things, it 
was also perfectly simple. In fact, I reversed the stick 
and fished with the handle, to such good purpose that in a 
very few moments I had the leather thong in my fingers 
and hauled it out. 

The thong tied up the mouth of a small brown canvas 
bag, very much like that which is used by moderns in send- 
ing and fetching money from a bank. Did the Druids — 
did the ancient inhabitants of Grimspound — use canvas 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


9G 

bags for their banks? Or perhaps the Romans, from wliom 
we have borrowed so many things, invented the canvas bag 
for the convenience of bank-clerks. It had an ancient and 
a musty smell, not unexpected in a bag perhaps as old as 
King Cymbeline or Queen Boduque. And the coins were 
within. Now for the treasure. Yet it must go to II. R. II., 
even if it should prove to be — what? As tlie sailor said 
when he found the bottle, “ Rum, I hope; sherry, I think;"" 
sol: “Roman, I hope; mediaeval, I think; modern, by 
George!"" Yes, the coins were modern; they were not 
Roman, or Saxon, or Norman, or early English; they were 
not even rose-nobles, marks, moidores, or doubloons; they 
were simply sovereigns, twenty in number, and two of them 
quite new, bearing the date of 1879. The date of the bag, 
therefore, could not be later than that year. It might 
have been dropj^ed in the day before yesterday. Perhaps, 
however, there were more. No; the firm point of the stick 
struck against the hard stone all round the narrow recess, 
but there were no more coins. The bag was a modern 
bank bag, and the treasure was a collection of twenty coins 
all the same — namely, that Victorian gold piece which is 
now so scarce and so highly prized in country districts 
known as the sovereign. It was possible, indeed, that the 
Druids, who are supposed to have known so much, may 
have had a prophetic mint, and turned out these coins in 
anticipation of later times; but no: the theory seemed un- 
tenable. 

Twenty sovereigns in a bag — a bank bag — a modern 
brown canvas bag. Who could have climbed up Ilamil 
Down in order to hide twenty pounds in a little hole like 
this? Was it some philosopher careless of filthy lucre? 
No; in this country such a thinker exists no longer. Even 
the Socialists would divide equally among themselves — one 
man “ laying low "" to rob his neighbor of his share — and 
not throw away this treasure of good red gold. ■ Had it 
been placed there by some one as a voluntary offering and 
gift to the unknown God of Fortune in order to avert his 
wrath, by some man oyerprosperous, as the rich king of 
old threw his ring into the sea? That might have been be- 
fore the year 1879; since that time there has been nobody 
prosperous. Could it have been hidden there by a thief? 
But if thieves steal a bag of , money, it is the bag, and not 
the money, that they hide away. The money they take to 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


97 


a ken or a den, where their fraternity meet to enjoy the 
fruits of industry, l^^o thief, certainly, concealed the bag 
in this place; It must therefore have been put there and 
hidden away by somebody for some secret purpose of his 
own. -But what purpose? Who could possibly have 
brought a bag of twenty pounds to this wild spot, so dis- 
tant from any place of human resort, and yet exposed to 
pch an accident of discovery? Perhaps it was a magpie; 
in which case it only remained to find the maid. Only six 
years ago; perhaps less. Twenty pounds is a large sum to 
put away. Assuredly there was no one at all in the neigh- 
borhood of Hamil Down by whom twenty pounds could be 
“put away^" without “feeling it,"" as is poetically and 
beautifully said. Twenty pounds! I kept counting the 
money, turning it over from hand to hand, looking again 
at the dates on the coins, and trying to think how this 
money came here, and why it could have been left here. 

Finally I put the gold into the bag, tied it up again, and 
put it into my own pocket. Then 1 walked on, my beauti- 
ful literary meditations quite interrupted, and turned from 
a peaceful stream into a muddy and angry whirlpool. One 
does not like to be faced with a conundrum which can not 
be solved, and yet will not be quiet, but keeps presenting 
itself. In the fable of the king who was chased by the 
gadfly it is cunningly figured how a man went mad by try- 
ing to solve an enigma of which he could not find the an- 
swer, but which would never cease to trouble him. 

Thinking of this curious “ cache,"" I went on walking 
mechanically, till I found myself at the other side of the 
broad upland down. The sun by this time, which was 
eleven o" clock, was blazing hot, and I thought with yearn- 
ing of rest and a pipe in the shade. The nearest shade 
accessible was across the shallow valley at my feet, and 
under the rocks of Hooknor opposite. Not quite half- 
way across I saw the long gray line which I knew to be 
part of the inclosure of Grimspound, on the lower slope of 
Hamil Down. Beyond Grimspound the ground began to 
rise with a gentle ascent to Hooknor, where I proposed to 
rest. The way down which I plunged is encumbered with 
quagmires, and is steep and rocky; a hill-side where adders 
hiss — I never, for my own part, heard this creature hiss, or 
clap its hands, or do anything except get out of the way as 
quickly as it could — and where rabbits also spring up at 


98 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


your feet and scud away as if they had heard of rabbit-pie. 
Presently, however, I found myself within the ancient and 
honorable city of Grimspound, which has been in ruins for 
sixty generations of human beings. Sixty generations! It 
seems a great many. We who are the heirs of all the ages 
possess, as may be reckoned, so many ancestors of that 
period that they may be set down by the figure one, fol- 
lowed by eighteen naughts, which is about a hundred million 
times the whole population of the globe at that time. The 
difference is caused by the marriage of cousins. 

Dartmoor has many of these ancient inclosures and sacred 
circles with avenues of stones, menhirs, dolmens, pierced 
stones, and other holy apparatus of a long-forgotten cult. 
Grimspound, which is the largest of them, is a great oblong, 
surrounded by what was once a strong wall, formed by 
rolling the bowlders down the hill and piling them one 
above the other. The wall is now thrown over. Outside 
the wall was once a broad ditch or fosse, which is now 
iiearly filled up. Within the wall are a dozen small circles 
formed of stones laid side by side. They are tlie founda- 
tions of houses, like those of Kes Tor. The largest circle 
was doubtless the Royal Palace, or perhaps the sacred 
building of the priest, where he sat in solitary grandeur 
when he was not conducting some beautiful and awe-inspir- 
ing human sacrifice. The small circles were the habitations 
of the nobility and gentry of Grimspound. The common 
sort had to make their huts without any circles, because the 
stones were all used up. The Grimspound ers had no ene- 
mies, because on this island everybody spoke the same 
language, and they were all cousins. But man^s chief 
happiness is war and fighting; therefore they pretended to 
be at feud with all the other tribes, and so went foraging 
and driving the cattle, and attacked and were attacked, 
and had their great generals and their valiant captains — to 
every tribe its Achilles and Diomede, and Nestor and 
^Ulysses — just as their successors. All this fully accounts 
for Grimspound, and makes ^ that place deeply interesting. 
At the same time, if any gentleman has a little pocket the- 
ory of his own about the origin- and history of the place, we 
shall be pleased to hear him. The late ingenious Mr. 
James Fergusson, for instance, wrote a whole book to prove 
that Grimspound and its brother stone cities were all built 
the day before yesterday. Tliis may be true; but, as above 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


99 


stated, the absence of the oldest inhabitant prevented him 
from proving his case. 

When I had walked across the length and breadth of 
Grirnspoiiiid, and visited the spring just outside the wall — 
no doubt the scene of many a sanguinary fight, the be- 
siegers trying to keep the besieged from getting at the 
water — and when I had drunk of the water which looks so 
brown as it trickles through the little pools among the 
peat, I walked slowly up the hill of Hooknor, and found 
my shady place beside the rocks and sat down and filled 
my pipe, still agitated with the abominable mystery and 
enigma of the canvas bag, yet thinking^'I could devote my 
mind uninterruptedly to its consideration and to the tobac- 
co. But it was a day of mysteries. 

Before I tell you what followed, please to bear in mind 
that, though one talks of valleys and the tops of hills, the 
Tor of Hooknor is a very low elevation, and is certainly 
not the fourth part of a mile from Grimspound; next, 
that the inclosure lies on the upland slope of the opposite 
hill, though low down. Therefore to one upon Hooknor it 
is spread out like a map — the map of an island, in which 
the outer wall represents the sea-coast, and the stone cir- 
cles lakes or mountains, according to the fancy of the ob- 
server. Thirdly, that the air was so clear and bright, so 
free from vapor or haze, that every blade of grass and 
every twig of heather on the opposite hill seemed visible 
from where I sat; and, lastly, that I am gifted with very 
long sight, insomuch that when I take a book of small 
print Lam fain, in order to get the full flavor of it, to set it 
up at one end of the room and to read it from the other. If 
you understand all this, you will perfectly understand what 
followed. 

At the same time I was perfectly in the view of any one 
in Grimspound, had there been any one there. 

There was no one within sight or hearing; there was not 
a sight or sound of human life to be seen, looking from 
Hooknor at the great massive hill of Hamil Down ; neither 
up nor down the valley, from this place, could be seen a 
village, a clearing, a farm, or any trace of man. Thus I 
fell to thinking again about that bag. How on earth did 
it get into such a queer place? Such a thing no more got 
into such a place by accident than the wondrous order of 


100 


TO CALL HEK MINE. 


the Cosmos is arrived at by accident; it could not have been 
dropped out of anybody's pocket by accident — the figura- 
tion and situation of the recess forbile that. It could not, 
again, have been deposited very recently, considering the 
moldiness of the bag. I thought of putting it back and 
watching. But in order to watch one must hide, and there 
is no place in Hamil Down for even a dwarf to hide. Be- 
sides, if it had been left there five or six years before, the 
hiding-place might now be forgotten. And, again, one 
would have to watch continously, and the top of Hamil 
would be bleak in winter and cold at night; and there 
would be difficulties about grub. 

While I was thinking, the figure, which I began dimly 
to perceive through the nebulous veil of thought, was work-’ 
ing his way slowly down the hill-side opposite by nearly 
the same way as 1 had myself picked among the bowlders. 
He came plodding along with the heavy step and rolling 
shoulders of one who walks much over plowed fields and 
heavy land — George Sidcote had acquired that walk since 
his narrowed, circumstances made him a hind as well as a 
master. This man looked neither to right nor left. Tiiere- 
fore he was not only a countryman, but one who knew the 
moor, and was indifierent as rustics seem — but they are not 
in reality — to its beauty and its wildness. As he came 
lower, I observed that he walked with hanging head, as if 
oppressed with thought; and presently, though his face re- 
mained hidden, I recognized him. By his mop of red 
hair, by his great "heard, by his rolling shoulders, this 
could be no other than David Leighan. AVhat on earth 
was David wanting on Hamil Down, and whither was he 
going? It was our returned prodigal, and the suspicion 
occurred to me immediately that not only was the prodigal 
impenitent, but that he was up " to something. It might 
have been a suspicion as unjust and unkind as it was base- 
less, but it certainly crossed my mind. AVhere was he go- 
ing, and why? 

It thus became apparent that he was making for Grims- 
pound. For if he had been going to Challacombe he would 
have kept higher up; and if he had been going toVitifer or 
to Post Bridge, he would have kept on straight for a 
quarter of a mile before striking the path; but he made 
straight down the hill, just 'as I had done. Was David also 
then among the archaaologists? AVas he going to verify on 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


101 


the spot a theory on their purpose and construction — first 
conceived, perhaps, among the blacks! 

Whatever he was in search of he had a purpose in his 
mind. His face, which I could now make out plainly under 
the shade of his felt hat, was set with a purpose. Your 
naturally slow man, when he has a definite purpose in his 
mind, shows it more intelligibly than the swift-minded 
man, who jumps from one idea to another. He was going 
to Grimspound — perhaps the purpose marked in his face 
was only a determination to sit down and take a pipe among 
the ruins. In that case he might take it kindly if I were 
to shout an invitation to come up and join me. But no. 
AVhen he should see me it would be time enough to shout. 

In the corner of Grimspound, nearest to Hamil Down, 
there are lying piled one above the other three or four 
stones a good deal bigger than those which form the greater 
part of the wall. They lie in such a way — I presently as- 
certained the act by investigation — that there is formed a 
little cave, dry, quite protected from rain, dark, and long, 
its back formed by the lower part of a round bowlder, while 
one side, sloping floor, and sloping roof are formed by these 
flat bowlders. David, I observed — though I knew nothing 
then about this little cave, I dare say there are many others 
like it in the inclosure — made straight for the spot without 
doubt or hesitation. He had, therefore, come all the way 
from Manaton to look for something in Grimspound. This 
was interesting, and I watched with some curiosity, though 
I ought, no doubt, to have sung out. It must be something 
he had brought home with him — something valuable. He 
was not, perhaps, so poor as he seemed to be. When one 
comes to think of it, a man must have some possessions; it 
is almost impossible to travel about for six years and to 
amass nothing; one must have luggage of some kind when 
one crosses the ocean all the way from Australia to Eng- 
land. 

He stopped at this convenient hiding-place. Then he 
looked around him quickly, as if to assure himself that no 
one was present to observe hipi; I wonder he did not see 
me. Then he stooped down, reached within some cavity 
hidden to me, and drew out something. 

It was in a big blue bag. I could plainly see that the 
blue bag, like my canvas bag, was weather-stained. He 
laid the bag upon a stone, and proceeded to draw out its 


103 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


contents, consisting of a single box. It was a box about 
two feet long and eighteen inches wide, and two or three 
inches deep. It was a tin box. What had David got in 
his box? I might have walked down the hill and asked 
him that question, but one was naturally somewhat 
ashamed to confess to looking on at what was intended for 
a profound secret. Let him take his box and carry it back 
to his cottage. I made up my mind on the spot, and noth- 
ing that followed in the least degree caused me to waver in 
that conviction— indeed, I heard very little of what had 
happened for some time afterward — that the box had been 
brought home by David; and I was quite certain that it 
contained things which he had gathered during his travels. 
What things? Well, they have coral, pearls, shells, feath- 
ers, all kinds of beautiful things in the islands of the Pa- 
cific. We shall soon find out what they were. 

Good! David was not, then, quite a pauper. It is al- 
ways pleasant to find that the returned exile has not done 
altogether so badly for himself. Let him keep his secret, 
and reveal it in his own good time. 

David was so anxious to keep the secret that he actually 
took off his jacket — the sailor’s blue jacket — wrapped it 
round the bag, and tied it up securely with string. Then, 
without looking about him any more, he turned and walked 
back as slowly and deliberately as he had come, carrying 
the treasure under his arm. As soon as his figure had sur- 
mounted the brow of the hill and had disappeared, I got 
up and sought the hiding-place in the wall of Grimspound. 
It really was a place into which nobody would think of 
looking for anything. The top stone sloped downward over 
the mouth, so as almost to hide it. In this cluster of four 
great stones no one would have dreamed of finding or of 
looking for anything. David’s hiding-place was well chosen. 

Then I followed, walking slowly, so that I might not 
catch him up on his way home with his tin box full of 
queer things from the {Southern Seas. 

The extraordinary coincidence, which I did not in the 
least suspect, was that on the very same morning that Da- 
vid went to recover the box I should light upon the bag. 
You will understand presently what a remarkable coinci- 
dence that was. 

In the evening I told George all that had happened, and 
produced the brown canvas b'ag. George did exactly what 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


103 


is iisaal under such circumstances: without some conven- 
tional manner of receiving things, even surprises of the 
most startling kind, life would be too jumpy. He took the 
bag, looked at it, opened it, poured out the gold, counted 
it, held it in his hand and weighed it; looked at it again, 
put it back into the bag, and laid the bag on the table. 

“ It is weather-stained, old man,^-^ he said, “ and smells 
of the mold. I should think it had been there some 
time.-^^ He took it up again and turned it round. “ Look!’^ 
he said, ‘‘ here are initials; they are nearly faded, but they 
are certainly initials. I make out an A— no, a B; or is it 
a D? — and an L. Certainly an L; B. L. or D. L., which 
is it?^-’ 

‘‘ Looks to me,^^ I said, turning the bag about in the 
light, “ looks like B. A. ; but it may be D. L. ” 

Will,^^ he cried, ‘‘I believe you have really found 
something important. Six years ago, when Daniel Leighan 
fell oli his pony, he always declared that he lost twenty 
pounds in gold. It was tied up, he always says, in a canvas 
bag. This must be his bag and these must be his initials. 
I am quite sure of it.^’ 

“ Very odd, if it is so. Why should a man steal a bag 
of money only to put it — money and all — into a hole and 
then go away and leave it?^’ 

Well, I take it that the thief put the bag there mean- 
ing to return for it, but forgot where he put it.-’^ 

“You canH forget the Gray Wether Stone, George. 
There is only one Gray Wether Stone on Hamil Down, and 
who in the world would go all up Hamil on purpose to hide 
a bag of money when there are hiding-places in every stone 
wall about the fields?’^ 

“ Take it to Daniel to-morrow and show it to him. Will. 
He always declares that he was robbed of this money as 
well as of his bonds and securities. Nobody has ever be- 
lieved him, because it seems unreasonable that a robber 
should take twenty pounds and leave fifty. But if it is 
proved that he is right about the money, he may also be 
right about the bonds. 

Strange that neither of us thought of connecting David^’s 
box, which he fished out at Grimspound, with his uncle^s 
bonds. But then I did not know that the bonds were in a 
box; one thinks of bonds as a roll of paper. 

“ As for David^s box,'’^ said George, “ I agree with you. 


104 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


AVill, that it is best to say nothing about it. Let him keejJ 
his secret. If it is valuable, so much the better. We will 
keep the thing to ourselves. But as for the canvas bag, 
you must certainly take it to Gratnor to-morrow, and give 
Daniel the chance of claiming it.-’^ 


OHAPTEK XL 

DAVID’S REVEKGE. 

Had I taken that canvas bag to Gratnor early in the 
morning instead of the evening, many things might have 
turned out differently; among other things, David’s extraor- 
dinary scheme of revenge might never have been possi- 
ble. If I had told Daniel Leighan the strange thing I had 
witnessed from Hooknor Tor, he must certainly have con- 
nected the box taken from Grimspound with the box of his 
own papers. As for me, however, I knew nothing till 
much later about that box of papers. 

The scheme was almost worthy of David’s American pals 
— the gentlemen who had all “done something.” The 
box, when David had carried it home, proved to be quite 
full of papers. His own knowledge of papers and their 
value was slight, but he knew very well that signed papers 
had been his own destruction, and that the possession of 
signed papers made his uncle rich. I do not suppose that 
he could have known anything at all about shares, warrants, 
bonds, coupons, and such things. But he did know, and 
understood clearly, that the loss of a box full of papers 
would certainly entail the greatest inconvenience, and might 
cause a grievous loss of property. The loss of ordinary 
papers, such as share certificates and the like, causes only 
temporary inconvenience, which may be set right by pay- 
ment of a small fee. But there are some kinds of papers 
the loss of which simply means that of the whole invest- 
ment represented. Among these, for instance, are coupons 
representing certain municipal bonds. They are made 
payable to bearer, and if they are lost can not be replaced. 
In this tin box David found certain coupons of this kind. 
They represented an investment of nearly £3000. This is 
a large sum of money, even in the eyes of a rich man; 
think what it means to a man who has made his money by 
scraping and saving, by scheming how to best his neighbor. 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


105 


and by being as eager to save sixpence in a bargain as to force 
a sale for his own advantage! Three thousand pounds! It 
was the half of the money which Daniel Leighan held in 
trust for Mary until she should marry with his consent. He 
had almost brought himself to think that it was part of 
Mary^s fortune which had been lost, and that he would be 
able to deduct that sum from the amount which he must 
pay her when he suffered her to get married. Three 'thou- 
sand pounds lost altogether! For now six years had passed 
away, and there was not a single clew or trace of those 
coupons, so that those Who did not believe that Daniel had 
been robbed were inclined to think that the papers, wher- 
ever he had left them, must have been destroyed in spite 
of their owner. 

David called upon his uncle about eleven in the fore- 
noon. He was received with the cordiality generally ex- 
tended to all needy relations, and to those who think they 
have a right to expatiate upon their misfortunes and to 
ask for a temporary loan. 

Mr. Leighan shuffled his papers as a sign that he was 
busv and wished the call to be short, nodded his head with 
scant courtesy, and asked his nephew what he came for. 

‘‘ Fve come, uncle,"" David began very slowly, spread- 
ing himself upon a chair like unto one who^ means to stay. 
In fact, he placed his hat upon another chair, drew out his 
pocket-handkerchief and laid it across his knees, and pro- 
duced a small brown paper packet. “ Fve come, uncle— - 

“ Don"t be longer than you can help, David. Get to the 
subject at once, if you can. Say what you came to say, 
and then go away and leave me with my own business. It s 
high time you were looking after your own. Will George 
Sidcote give you a job?"" 

‘‘ Damn your jobs!"" said his nephew, flaming. 

‘‘I hear you borrowed a bed yesterday, and a chair and 
a table, and that you have settled in the cottage— my cot- 
tage. Very good. I don’t mind if you have it rent free 
till you get into work, when you’ll have to pay your rent 
like your neighbors. If you begin any more nonsense about 
robbing you of your land, out you go at once. 

David at the risk of seeming monotonous, uttered an- 
other and a similar prayer for the destruction of his uncle s 

cottage. * ,.11 

“ If that is all you came to say, nephew, the sooner you 


106 


TO CALL HEE MINE. 


go the better. And the sooner you clear out of my cottage 
and leave the parish — do you hear, sir? — leave the parish — 
the better, or I'^ll make the place too hot for you — 

“I didn’t come to swear at you, uncle, said David, 
more meekly. ‘‘ If you wouldn’t keep on — there, I’ve 
done; now hold your tongue and listen. I’ve got some- 
thing very serious to say — very serious, indeed — and it’s 
about your business, too!” 

“ Then make haste about it.” 

“ Six years ago, they tell me, you were robbed, that night 
when you fell off your pony, after I’d gone away.” 

“ It was the evening of that very day.” 

“ Ah!” — David’s eyes smiled, though his lips did not — - 
“ we little thought when I used those words with which we 
parted, how quick they’d come true. When you lay there on 
the broad of your back, now, your face white and your eyes 
open, but never seeing so much as the moon in the sky, 
did you think of your nephew whose farm you’d robbed, 
and did you say, ‘ David, ’tis a judgment ’?” 

“ No, I didn’t, David.” Afterward Daniel wished that 
he had denied the truth of those details about the white 
face and the eyes which saw nothing; because if a man is 
solemnly cursed by his nephew in the morning, and gets 
such a visitation in the evening it does look like a Provi- 
dence, regarded from any point of view. He did not, how- 
ever, ask or suspect how David arrrived at those details. 
“ I didn’t say that, David. You -may be quite sure I 
didn’t say that. ” 

‘‘ You felt it all the more then. Very well. While you 
lay there, as they tell me, some one comes along and robs 
you. What did you lose, uncle? Was it your watch and 
chain and all your money?” 

‘‘ No; my watch and chain were not taken, and only a 
little of the money.” 

‘‘ Uncle, are you sure you were robbed? Do you think 
that robbers ever leave money behind them? Was the 
money taken in notes, or was it in gold?” 

‘‘ It was all in gold; fifty pounds in one bag, twenty 
pounds in the other, and both bags in one pocket. The 
piall bag was taken and the big bag left. But what does 
it matter to you?” 

You shall see presently. ^ I am going to surprise you, 
uncle. What else did you lose besides the little bag?” 


TO CALL HEE MIETE. 


107 


I lost a box of papers— but what does it matter to 
you? Did you come here to inquire about my robbery? I 
suppose you are glad to hear of it. 

“ Never mind, uncle. You go on answering my ques- 
tions; IVe got my reasons. I am going to surprise you. 

Waitabif •, o t4. +• 

Well, then; but what can you know? It was a tin 
box secured by a lock and tied round with a leather strap; 

I carried it in a blue bag— a lawyer^s bag— hanging round 
my neck for safety. 

“ What was in that box, did you say? 

“ David!'" the old man changed color, and became per- 
fectly white, and clutched at the arms of his chair and 
pulled himself upright, moved out of himself by the mere 
thought. David! have you heard anything? have you 

found anything?" • . a 

“ Wait a bit; all in good time. ^ AVhat was in that box, 

did you say, again?" 

“Papers." <. • t 

' ‘ What kind of papers? Were they papers, for instance, 

that might make you lose money?" . , , - . 

“ Money? David, there were papers in that box that 
could never be replaced. Money? I lost with that box 
papers to the tune of three thousand pounds— three thou- 
sand pounds, David — all in coupons! 

“ It was a judgment! AVhy, my mortgages were not so 
very much more. Three thousand pounds! Come even 
you would feel that, wouldn't you? Were there actually 
three thousand pounds in that box? , , 

“ The man who stole that box might have presented 
those coupons one by one, and got them paid as they fell 
due, without questions asked— that is, he could until I 
stonned them. Oh! I could stop them, and I did; but I 
could never get them paid until I presented them through 
my own bankers. David, if you are revengeful, you may 
Wh; for it is a blow from which I have never recovered. 
They say that the paralysis in my legs was caused by fall- 
ing from the pony, whereby I got, it seems concussion of 
the brain. But I know better; David. A man like me 
Tes not get paralyzed in the legs by falling on his head 
^Twas the loss of all the money-the loss of thi^e thousand 
poLds-that caused the paralysis. And now I sit 
Lay long— I who used to ride about on my own land all day 


108 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


long! — and I try to think, all day and all night, if I could 
have left that box anywhere, or given to any one that bag 
of twenty sovereigns. David, tell me — I will reward you if 
you tell me anything to my advantage — have you heard 
something?'-’ 

David nodded his head slowly. 

“ Three thousand pounds/' he repeated. “ It was three 
thousand pounds." 

‘‘I'm not a rich man, David, though you think I am. 
As for taking your farm, if I hadn't taken it, somebody 
else 'would; for you were a ruined man, David — you were a 
ruined man. And now, even, if I leave it to you in my 
will, for I must leave my property to some one — it is a hard 
thing that a man can't take his property with him when he 
dies! — it would be little use, because Mary's money must 
come out of it. Oh! it was a hard blow — a cruel, hard 
blow." 

“ Yes," said David. “ As a judgment, it was a — a — a 
— wunner. I never heard of a nobler judgment. Three 
thousand pounds! — and a fall off your pony! — and a paraly- 
sis! — all for robbing me of my land. Did you ever offer 
any reward?" 

“No. What was the good?" 

“ Would you give any reward?" 

“I would give — I would give— yes — I would give ten 
pounds to get that box back again." 

“ Ten pounds for three thousand. That's a generous 
offer, isn't it?" 

“ I'd give fifty pounds — I'd give a hundred — two hun- 
dred-four hundred, David." He multiplied his offer by 
two every time that David shook his head. 

“ You'd have to come down more handsome than four 
hundred to get back three thousand pounds. Well," he 
rose as if to go, “ that's all I've got to say this morning. 
That will do for to-day. Much more handsome you would 
have to come down." 

“ David!" cried his uncle, eagerly, “ what do you mean 
by being more handsome. Tell me, David — do you know 
anything?" 

“ Why," said David, “ T may know, or I may not know. 
What did I tell you? Didn't I say that I might have some- 
thing to sell? Well — that's enough for this morning!" 
He moved toward the door. 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


109 


“ David, David, come back! What have you got to sell?’" 

“That is my secret"" — he stood with his hand on the 
door-handle— “ if you tell a secret, what is the good of 
it?"" 

“ David, stop— stop! Do you know where that box was 
taken? Oh! David, put away your hard thoughts. Re- 
member you were ruined already. I didn"t rum you; my 
heart bled to see your father"s son ruining himself."" 

David made the same remark about his uncle "s heart as 
he made concerning liis reference to jobs and his allusion 
to the cottage. 

“ Look here, uncle; perhaps the box exists, and perhaps 
it doesn"t. Perhaps I have learned where it is, and perhaps 
I haven’t. Perhaps Pve got a paper out of the box in my 
pocket at this minute, and perhaps — well, what would you 
give me for a paper out of the box, taken out this veiy 
morning, none of the other papers having been so much as 
touched? Not one of the books full of those coupons, or 
whatever you call them, but a paper worth nothing. What 
would you give for that, just to show that the others can 

be laid hold of ?"" . ^ i . 

Oh! give it to me, David;"" the old man stretched out 
both hands with yearning eyes; “ let me look at it. Can it 
be that the box is found after all, and safe?"" ^ 

“If it is found, depend upon it that it is safe, uncle. 
Take your oath of that. The man who s got that box 
won’t let it go in a hurry, particularly when he knows 
what’s inside of it. Three thousand pounds! and, perhaps, 
if he knew it, his own, for the trouble of presenting them 

at the right place.” . , x • i ^ 

They’ve been stopped, Daniel explained, tor the 
second time. “ You don’t know what that means, per- 
haps; it means that any one who presents those papers for 
payment will find the money stopped, and himself taken 
up for unlawful possession of the coupons— unlawful posses- 
sion, David— which is seven ye^rs, I believe!” ^ 

Perhaps he was not wise in giving this warning, bor it 
stands to reason that the coupons might have been pre- 
sented, and so the possessor been detected and the whole 

Very well,"^ said David, who had that valuable quality, 
often found with the slow mind, of imperturbability. 
“ But you can’t touch the money without the papers, can 


110 


TO CALL HER HIKE. 


you? Not you. Very well, then. Without talking of 
those coupons, as you call them, for the present, what 
should you say supposing I was to show you now — this 
minute' — one of the other papers that were in the box?^' 

“ Do you mean it, David? do you mean it?^' 

“ I mean business, uncle. I mean selling, not giving. 

“ I suppose, said Daniel, trying to preserve a calm ex- 
terior, but trembling down to the tips of his fingers — “ I 
suppose, David, that the man who has the box has com- 
municated with you because he thinks you are my enemy ?^^ 
“ "You may suppose so, uncle, if you like.-’^ 

“ And that he is willing to make a deal. He would give 
up the papers which are of no use to him in return for 
liard cash — eh, David 

‘‘ You may supj)ose that, too, if you like./^ 

“ Papers stolen from me — papers the unlawful possession 
of which would insure him a long imprisonment?'^ 

‘‘Just as you like, uncle. Only — don't you see? — at tlie 
first mention of the word ‘ imprisonment ' all these papers 
would be dropped into the fire, and then — where are you? 
No more chance of recovering a penny!" 

“ Show me — prove to me — that you know sometliing 
about the box." 

“ I am going to prove it to you." David left the door 
and came back to the table, standing over his uncle. 
“ AVhat will you give me, I ask you again, for only one 
paper out of the box, just to prove that the other papers 
exist? " 

“ AVhat paper is it?" 

“You shall see; one of the papers that are worth noth- 
ing. I have actually got it in this packet, and you shall 
have it if you give me ten pounds for it; not a penny less — 
ten pounds. If you refuse, and I have to take it back, ten 
pounds' worth of the coupons— now that I know their value 
— shall be torn up and burned. To-morrow I shall come 
back and make the same proposal, and the next day the 
same, and every day that you refuse you shall have ten 
pounds' worth of those coupons burned. AVhen they are 
all gone you will be sorry." 

Daniel's lips moved, but no words followed. The 
audacity of the proposal, which, really was almost equal to 
a certain famous proposal in “ The Count of Monte-Cristo," 
though neither of them had read that book, took his breath 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


Ill 


away; but if David really had access to the box, he was un- 
doubtedly the master of the situation. Mr. Leighan was 
the more astonished, because hitherto he had supposed his 
nephew to be a fool. Very few men are really fools, 
though their faculties may lie dormant.^ David, before his 
bankruptcy, was incapable of perceiving his own oppor- 
tunity in anything; David, since his wanderings, especially 
with those rovers of America who had all “ done some- 



“ How do I know?^^ Mr. Leighan asked. ‘‘How can I 
tell that when you have got the ten pounds I shall be any 
nearer my coupons:’^ 

“ This way, uncle. Oh, I have found the way to con- 
vince even you. In a day or two I shall ‘Come with another 
paper out of the box — one of those which are no use to any- 
body — and you shall buy that of me on the same terms. If 
you don't I shall begin to burn the coupons. When we 
have got through all the worthless papers we shall get to 
the coupons, and then I shall begin to sell them to you as 
fast as you like to buy them, uncle — that is to say, if we 
can agree upon the price. And I promise you that, before 
you have bought them back, you will be sorry that you ever 
foreclosed on Berry Down. It will be the dearest bit of 
land you ever got hold of. Uncle Daniel, I think that be- 
fore I^"e done you will acknowledge that we are more than 
quits. IWe seen a bit of the world since I saw you last, and 
IVe learned a thing or two.’’ ^ 

Daniel groaned. 

“ Uncle, before you give me that ten pounds, tell me how 
the devil you washable to send your own ghost after me 
every night?” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ I say, how did you haunt me every night? Why did 
you command me to come home? What did you do it 
for?^^ 

“ What did I do it for?^" 

“After all, I’m come, and what is the consequence? 
Mischief to you, money to me; that’s what has come of it. 
Mischief to you, money to me.” The jingle pleased David 
so much that he kept on repeating it, “ Mischief to you, 
money to me!” 

“Oh! I don’t know — I don’t know what this man 
means!” the old man cried, in distress. “ What docs he 


112 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


mean with his haunting and his ghost and his orders? 
Nephew, I am getting tired of this. Show me the paper if 
you have it with you, and I will tell you what I will do. 
Put it into my hands. 

“ Well, I don^t mind doing that. If you tear it up I 
shall want the ten pounds just the same. It doesn^t mat- 
ter to me if you tear up all the papers. Now,^'^ he unfolded 
the brown paper packet, ‘‘ what do you think of this?^' 
He took out a paper somewhat discolored by damp, ‘‘ What 
is this? ‘ The last Will and Testament of Daniel Leighan.^ 
He placed it in his uncle^s hands. 

“ This is a precious document, truly, said Daniel, ‘‘ a 
valuable document. Why, man, IVe made another will 
since. 

“ I donH care how many wills you have made. I don^t 
care whether it is valuable to you or not. To me it is ten 
pounds. Ten pounds, uncle. Tear it up or burn it, just 
as you like. But ten pounds. ” 

If I give it to you, how do I know that you will give 
me back my coupons?^ ^ 

“ Why, you had better not even think of my giving you 
back your coupons. When did you ever give anything to 
anybody? Do you think I shall return your generosity by 
giving you anything? No, I shall sell you those coupons 
one by one. You shall see your thousands melt away every 
day, just as you are getting them back into your hands. 
You took my land away at a single blow. I shall take your 
money from you bit by bit, little by little, like pulling out 
your teeth one by one. 

“ You are a devil, David. You were only a fool when 
3"Ou went away. You have come back a devil. 

“ Who made me, then? You! Come, donT let us talk 
any more. There is your paper. Give me my ten pounds 
and I will go. To-morrow or next day, just as I please, I 
shall come back. 

Daniel Leighan’s hands trembled’, and he hesitated. But 
he did not doubt his nephew^s words. He knew that the 
box had been somehow recovered, and that his papers were 
in David ^s reach, if not in his power. 

He opened his desk, and took out of it one of those little 
round boxes which are made for bottles of marking ink. 
A sovereign just fits into those boxes. He kept one in his 
desk filled with sovereigns. Mary went over to Moreton 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


113 


oncG a Month, to got the money for him. He held this box 
tightly in his left hand, and began very slowly to count out 
ten pounds. 

“Here, Havid,'^ he said, with a heavy sigh; “here is 
the money. Heaven knows it is hard enough in these times 
to make ten pounds, and harder to give them away. The 
Lord send you a better heart, David. 

“ Thank you, uncle; the same to you, I’m sure. If we 
both had better hearts, uncle, what fools we should look — 
eh?’^ 

“ If you had read this will, David, you would have found 
yourself put down for something good. Well, so far I for- 
give you. But donH tempt me too much, or you may find 
my real last will and testament a very different thing. You 
are my nephew, David — my only nephew — and I’ve got a 
good deal to leave — a good deal to leave, David. ” 

“ As for my inheritance, uncle, I am going to take it out 
of you bit by bit — a little to-day and a little to-morrow. I 
shall enjoy it better that way. I think that’s all. Oh, no! 
You may be thinking to charge me with unlawful possession 
of your property. If you do, the whole of the papers will 
go into the fire. Remember that! And now, uncle, I 
think I’ve done a good morning’s work, and I’ll go away 
and have some beer and a pipe. Take care not to talk 
about thisTittle matter to any one, or it will be the worse 
for you — mind, not to Mary or to George or anybody. If 
you breathe a word, all the papers go into the fire. ” 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE SECOKD DREAM. 

Whek Mary came in about one o’clock to clear the table 
and lay the cloth for dinner she found her uncle in a very 
surprising condition. He was in tears — actually in tears. 
He had feen weeping. How long ago was it since Daniel 
Leighan had been seen to weep? The misfortunes of his 
neighbors passed over him, so to speak, and left him dry- 
eyed; as for hiniself, he had met with no misfortunes in 
his life except the loss of his box of papers and the paralysis 
of his lower limbs. This is a grievous thing to endure, but 
a man — an old man— does not weep because one of the 
afflictions of age falls upon him. 


114 


TO CALL HEE MIKE. 


Yefc Daniels eyes were wet with tears, and his papers lay 
untouched upon the table, and he had turned his head unto 
his pillows, as Ahab turned his unto the wall. 

“ Why, uncle, dried Mary, “ whatever is the matter?'^ 

‘ ‘ I wish I was dead , Mary ! I wish I was dead and buried, 
and that it was all over!'^ 

‘‘ Why, uncle? Are you ill?^^ 

“No; I would rather be ill. I could bear any pain, I 
think, better than this."” 

“ Then what is it? You are trembling. Will you take 
a glass of wine?^^ 

“ No, I-canT afford it. I canT afford any luxury now, 
Mary. You will have to watch over every penny for the 
future. 

“ What has happened, then?’^ 

“ I am a miserable man. I have been miserable for six 
years, thinking over my papers; but I always hoped to find 
them. And now— 

“ Now, uncle? 

“ Now they are found — that is all. They are found, and 
I never really lost them till they were found. 

“ Where were they, after all?^^ 

“ I can not tell you, Mary. I only heard to-day — by 
post — by a letter — not by word of mouth — that they are 
found. And they are in the hands of a — of a villain; a 
villain, Mary, who will rob me of 1 know not what, before 
I get them back. DonT ask me any more, donT tell any 
one what I have said; I must have told some one, or I 
should have died. DonT speak to me about it; I must 
think — I must think. Oh! never in all my life before did 
I have to think so hard. 

He could eat no dinner; tliis morning’s business had 
taken away all desire for food. After dinner he refused 
his brandy and water, on the ground that he could no longer 
afford brandy and water. He also made pathetic allusions 
to the work-house. 

“ Come, uncle,” said Mary, “ you will make yourself ill 
if you fret. You have said for six years that you had lost 
this money, and now you find that you really have lost it — 
if you have — and you cry over it as if it. was a new thing. 
Nonsense about the work-house; you are as rich as you were 
yesterday. Take your brandy and vVater. Here — I will 
mix it for you.” 


TO CALL HLIl ISIIKL. 


115 


He took it, with many groans anti sighs. 

‘‘ Mary, ” he said, “ David has been here again. He says 
it is all a judgment.'’^ 

“All what, under” 

“ All the trouble that has fallen upon me — the fall from 
the pony, the loss of the papers, the very paralj^sis; he says 
it is a judgment for my taking his land. Do you think that 
it is a judgment, Mary? Perhaps I was hard upon the boy; 
but one couldn^t stand by and see a beautiful piece of 
property going to rack and ruin without stepping in to 
secure it. If I hadn^t lent him the money on mortgage, 
another would; if I hadn^t sold him up, another would — 
and it is all in the family; that^s what David ought to think, 
and not to come here swearing and threatening. In the 
family still; and who knows whether I sha’n't leave it to 
liim? I must leave it to some one, I suppose. If it is a 
judgment, Mary—” He paused for a word of comfort. 

“ AYell, uncle,^^ she said, “ we are taught that we bring 
our sufferings upon ourselves; and be sure, if everybody was 
good, there would be a great deal less suffering in the 
world. Nobody can deny that. ” 

“ But not such a lot of judgment, Mary. All this fuss 
because David had to sell his farm, and I bought it! I can^’t 
believe that. Why don^t other people get judgments, 
then?” 

“ Patience, uncle. Think — whatever happens now about 
that money, that it was lost six years ago. ” 

“ Ah! you keep on saying that. You don^t understand 
what it is to have the thing you had despaired of recover- 
ing dangled before your eyes and then taken away again. 
What does a woman understand about property? David 
laughed. There^s something come over David. He is just 
as slow as ever in his speech, and in liis ways, but he^s 
grown clever. No one could have guessed that David could 
go on as he went on here this morning. P 
“ What has David to do with it, uncle?” 

“ With the property? Nothing, Mary, nothing,” he re- 
adied, hastily. “ DonT think that he has anything to do 
with it.-’^ He groaned heavily, remembering how much, 
how very much, David had to do with it. 

“-Can I do anything? Can George do anything?” 

“ George would like to see me wronged. It is an envious 
world, and when a man gets forward a bit — ^ ^ 


116 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


‘‘ Uncle, it is not true that George would like to see you 
wronged. ’ ^ 

“ Then there is one thing he could do. It seems a big 
thing, but it is really a little thing. If George would do it, 
I would — I would — I would — no: because I should only lose 
the money another way. 

“ "You mean you would give your consent, uncle 

“ No — no; I canT do that. I couldnT yesterday; much 
less to-day, Mary. 

“ Well, what is this thing that George could do for you?^^ 

“ A villain has got my property, Mary. George might 
go and take it from him. If I had the use of my limbs, 
rd dog and watch that villain. I would find out where he 
had put the property. I would tear it out of his hands if I 
could get it no other way. Old as I am, I would tear it 
from his clutches. 

“ George can hardly do that for you, uncle. Especially 
when you refuse your consent to our marriage, and are go- 
ing to drive him out of Sidcote, as you drove David out of 
Berry. 

Mr. Leighan shook his head impatiently. 

“ It^s business, girl; it^s business. How can I help it?'^ 

“ Well, then, uncle, if you are in real trouble, send for 
George, and let him advise you. 

“ George, advise — me! Mary, my dear, when I begin to 
want advice of any man, send for the doctor and order my 
coffin. I might use George ^s arms and legs; but my own 
head is enough for me, thank you. ^ ^ 

He said no more, but took his pipe and began to smoke 
it. 

There is another way,^^ he said. “But I doubt 
whether you have sufficient affection for your uncle to try 
that way."'* 

“Is it something that I could do? Of course I will do 
it, if I can.^^ 

“ Will you? It^s this, girl. Hush! donT tell anybody. 
It’s this: David has got a secret that I want to find out. 
How he got hold of the secret I don’t know, and so I can’t 
tell you. Somebody has told him this secret. Now,” his 
voice sunk to a whisper, “ David was always very fond of 
you, Mary; and he is that soft of man as a woman can do 
what she pleases with him. Pretend to let him make love 


TO CALL HEK MINE. 117 

to you — pretend that you are in love with him. Wheedle 
the secret out of him, and then tell me what it is." 

‘‘ And what would George say while I was playing this 
part? Uncle, if you have such thoughts as that, you may 
expect another judgment." 

He groaned, and went on with his pipe. Then he took 
a second glass of brandy and water, because he was a good 
deal shaken and agitated. Then he finished his pipe in 
silence, laid it down, and dropped asleep. 

But his slumber was uneasy, probably by reason of his 
agitation in the morning; his head rolled about, he moaned 
in his sleep, and his fingers fidgeted restlessly. At four 
o'clock he woke up with a start and a scream, glaring about 
him with terror-stricken eyes, just as he had done once 
before. 

“ Help!" he cried. Help! He will murder me! Oh! 
villain, I know you now! I will remember — I will remem- 
ber!" Here the terror went suddenly out of his eyes, and 
he looked about him in bewilderment. 

“Mary! I remembered once more. Oh! I saw so clear 
— so clear! — and now I have forgotten again. This is the 
second time that I have seen in my dream the man who took 
my papers and my gold — the second time! Mary, if it 
comes again, I shall go mad. Oh! to be so near, and to 
have the villain in my grasp — and to let him go again! 
Mary, Mary — the loss of the money, and the dream, and 
your cousin David — all together — will drive me mad!" 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE CANVAS BAG.. 

This was truly an auspicious evening for me to present 
myself with my newly recovered bag. However, ignorant 
of the morning storm, I walked along, thinking how I 
would give the old man an agreeable surprise. 

His room, when I called, about eight o’clock, was gloomy 
and dark, the windows closed and the blinds half down, 
though outside the sun was only just setting. Mr. Leighan 
was sitting still and rigid, brooding, I suppose, over 
David's terrible threats. His sharp face was paler, and his 
steel-blue eyes were keener and brighter than usual. He 
was thinking how he should meet this danger, and how he 


118 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


could persuade or bribe or terrify David into submission and 
surrender of the papers; and there appeared no way. 

“ What do you want?’’ he cried, sharply. “ Whafc do you 
come here for.^ I am in no mood for idle prating.” 

“ I am come on your business, Mr. Leighan, if you call 
that idle prating. 

My business? I don’t remember that I ever had any 
business wifch you, Mr. Will Nethercote. I only have busi- 
ness with people who have money. ” 

“ True, and I have none for you to get hold of; neither 
land nor money, that is very true. Yet I am come on 
your business.” 

“ Tell it, then, and leave me. Young man,” he said, 
pitifully, “ I am old now, and I am in grievous trouble, 
and I can not see my way out of it. Don’t mind if I am a 
little impatient.” 

“ I won’t mind, Mr. Leighan. Meantime I have come 
to please you. ” 

“ You can’t. Nothing can please me now, unless you 
can make me young and strong, and able to throttle a vil- 
lain — that would please me.” 

“ I can not do that. Yet I am sure that I shall please 
you.” 

“ Go on, then; go on.” 

Then I began, with the solemnity with which one leads 
up to a dramatic situation. 

“ Six years ago, Mr. Leighan, you said that 3^ou had been 
robbed of a bag with twenty pounds in it. ” 

‘‘ A bundle of papers and a bag with twenty sovereigns. 
I did. Good heavens! one man comes in the morning 
about the papers, and another in the evening about the 
money. Go on, go on — I can bear it all.” 

“ There is nothing to bear, I assure you, Mr. Leighan,” 
I said, a little nettled. Come, it is all very well to be 
impatient, but there are bounds — ” 

“ Go on; let me get it over.” 

“Was that bag of yours a brown canvas bag with vour 
initials D. L. on it?” 

“ I thought so,’*’ he replied, strangely. “ So you, too, 
are in the plot, are you? And you are come to tell me that 
I shall have the bag back without the money, are you? 
You in the plot? What have I ever done to you?’ ’ 


TO CALL HER MINE. 119 

‘‘ I have not the least idea what you mean. Who is in a 
plot? Whatplot?^^ 

“ George, 1 suppose, will appear next with another piece 
of his conspiracy. You are all in a tale.^^ 

“ I think I had better finish what I have to say as quick- 
ly as possible. You are in a strange mood to-night, Mr. 
Leighan, with your plots and conspiracies— a very strange 
mood! Is this your bag?’^ 

I produced it and gave it to him. 

“ Yes, it is the bag I lost. I never lost but one bag, so 
that this must be the one. As I said — the bag without the 
money. AVell, I donH care. I have had greater misfort- 
unes — much greater. You have come to tell me that the 
bag was put into your hands. 

“ Not at all. I found the bag; I found it on the top of 
Hamil Down, hidden beside the Gray Wether Stone. 

Very likely. He tossed the bag aside. “ Why not 
there as well as any other place, when the money was once 
out of it?^^ 

“ But suppose the money was not taken out of it?” 

He laughed incredulously. 

‘‘In short, Mr. Leighan, the money was not taken out 
of the bag. It was hidden away at the foot of the Gray 
Wether Stone, where I found it by the accident of poking 
my stick into the place where it lay. I heard the clink of 
the money, and I pulled it out; and here, Mr. Leighan, 
are your twenty sovereigns.” 

I took them from my pocket, and laid them on the table 
in a little pile. His long lean fingers closed over them, 
and he transferred them swiftly to his pocket without tak- 
ing his eyes off my face, as if he feared that I might pounce 
upon the money. 

“ And wh^t, young man, do you ask for your honesty in 
bringing me back my money?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ You might have kept it. I should have been none the 
wiser. You are rich, I suppose, or you would have kept 
it. Many young men would have kept it. Can I offer 
you a pound — yes, a pound! — for your honesty?” 

“ No, thank you, Mr. Leighan; I do not want a reward 
for common honesty. Besides, you must thank George 
Sidcote, not me. It was George who discovered that it was 
your money.’” 


120 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


“As you please — as you please. In London you are so 
rich, I suppose, with your writing, that you can afford to 
throw away a pound well earned. As you please. ^ ^ 

“ Nobody ever believed that you were robbed, Mr. 
Leighan,"' I went on. “ But the finding of the money 
seems to show that you really were robbed while you were 
insensible. Perhaps we shall find the papers, too, some 
day. ” 

“ Perhaps we shall, he said. “ If they are in the hands 
of rogues and villains, I shall be much the better for it.^^ 

“ At any rate, it shows that you did not give the money 
to anybody. 

“ Give the money! Will, you are a fool. Did you ever 
know me give money to anybody? 

“ Certainly I never did.^'’ 

“Well, then, enough said about my robbery. It is 
strange, too; both on the same day — I knew not then 
what he meant. “ Both on the same day — and after six 
long years. What can this mean?^’ 

I can readily understand now, and by the light of all that 
we have learned, my extreme dullness in having such a clew 
and not being able to follow it up without hesitation. It 
was, of course, not the act of a common thief to steal a bag 
of gold and hide it away. And I had seen with my own 
eyes a man search for and find among the fallen stones of 
Grimspound a mysterious box, which he carried away 
stealthily. Yet I failed to connect David^’s box Muth 
DaniePs papers. To be sure, he had, so to speak, thrown 
me off the scent by speaking of his undoes accident as hav- 
ing happened after his own departure. And I thought of 
the papers as in a bundle, not as in a box; and, besides, I 
had formed a strong theory as to the contents of the box. 

Yet if there was one man in the place who owed Dan 
Leighan a grudge it was his nephew. That should have 
been remembered. But again, that David should find his 
uncle lying semseless in the road, and should rob him and 
go on his way without attempting to give him the least help, 
was not to be thought of; it was incredible. 

It is, I believe, a fact that novelists can not invent any 
situation so wild and incredible but that real life will furnish 
one to rival and surpass it. In the same way, there is 
nothing in baseness, in cruelty, in selfishness, in revenge, 
that can be palled impossible, Por this is exactly what 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


121 


David had done. The box which I saw him take from the 
‘fallen wall of Grimspound contained his uncle's bundle of 
papers; and the trouble that was hanging over this poor old 
man was the torture prepared for him, and already hanging 
over his head, of being slowly pillaged, and forced day by 
day to consent to new extortion. 

It seems as if the papers were stolen— now, doesn't 
it?" said Mr. Leighan. “ 1 suppose you all thought I was 
drunk, and put them somewhere, and then fell off the 
pony? Yes; I've known all along that you thought that. 
Well, I was not drunk; I was as sober that night as I am 
to-night. I used to wonder who the robber was. How I 
don't care to inquire; it is enough for me that I have been 
robbed, and that I am going to be robbed again." 

‘‘ Why again, Mr. Leighan?" 

Never mind why. Will," he said, eagerly, “ tell me 
— I never did any harm to you; you've never had any land 
to mortgage — tell me, do you know nothing of the papers? 
When you found this bag did you hear nothing about the 
papers?" 

“ I heard the wind singing in my ears, but it said noth- 
ing about any papers." 

“ Are you sure that you know nothing?" He peered into 
my face as if to read there some evidence of knowledge. 

‘‘ I know nothing. How should I?" 

Well, it matters little; I am not concerned with the rob- 
ber, but with the man who has them now. I must deal 
with him; and, there, you can not help me, unless — no — no 
— I can not ask it: you would not help me." 

“ Anyhow, Mr. Leighan, you've got your twenty pounds 
back again. That is something. Confess that you are 
pleased." 

“ Young man, if you torture a man all over with rheu- 
matic pains, do you think he is pleased to find that they 
have left his little finger, while they are still like red-hot 
irons all over the rest of his body? That is my case." 

‘‘ I am sorry to hear it. At the same time, twenty 
pounds, as I said before, is something." 

“ It's been lying idle for six years. Twenty pounds at 
compound interest — I don't spend my interest, I promise 
you — would now be six-and-twenty pounds. I've lost six 
pounds. " 

I laughed. A man who knows not the value of interest 


122 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


laughs easily. I expect, therefore, to go on laughing all 
the days of my life. 

As for the papers, there’s a dead loss of one hundred 
and fifty pounds a year. Think of that! All these years 
I’ve waited and hoped — yes, I’ve prayed — actually 'prayed 
— though there is no form of supplication which meets my 
case — that I might get my papers back again. Three thou- 
sand pounds there are, among these papers, besides the 
certificates and things that I could replace. Nearly all 
Mary’s fortune lost.” 

“ No,” I said. “ Don’t flatter yourself that you lost 
any of Mary’s money. It was your own money. You are 
trustee for Mary’s fortune, remember, and you will have to 
pay it over in full.” 

He winced and groaned. 

“ Three thousand pounds! With the interest it would 
now be worth nearly four thousand pounds at five per cent. 
And now all as good as lost!” 

“ Well, Mr. Leighan, I am sorry for you, very sorry, 
particularly as you will have to find that fortune of Mary’s 
very soon. ” 

“ Shall I, Master Will Nethercote? T shall give Mary 
her fortune when I please; not at all, unless I please. Mary 
has got to be obedient and submissive to me, else she won’t 
get anything. When I give my consent to her marriage, 
and not till then — not till then — I shall have to deliver up 
her fortune. Good-night to you. Will Nethercote.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

DRIHK ABOUT. 

During these days David led the life of a solitary. He 
sometimes went to the inn, but only to get his bottle of 
whiskey filled; he went to the village shop on the green to 
buy what he wanted, and he kept wholly to himself. Ex- 
cept for that daily visit to Gratnor, he talked with no one. 

From time to time I met him leaning over the field gates, 
loitering along the lanes, or sitting idly under the shade of 
one of our high hedges. I supposed that his loafing and 
wandering life had made work of any kind distasteful to 
him. But then he never had liked work. His face was 
not a pleasant one to gaze upon, and for a stranger would 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


123 


have been terrifying. It was now, as regards expression, 
such a face as one might have met on Hounslow Heath or 
Shepherd^s Bush in the last century, with a fierce “ stand- 
and -deliver look upon it — dogged, sullen, and discon- 
tented — the face of a man outside social law. He was 
sullen and discontented because he was always brooding 
over his wrongs; and dogged because he was pitilessly 
avenging them. At this time we knew from Mary that he 
went nearly every day to Gratnor, but we had no suspicion 
of what was said or done there. My own thoughts, indeed, 
were wholly occupied with the fortunes of George Sidcote, 
and I gave small heed to this sulky hermit. Yet had one 
thought about it, remembering how the man came home in 
rags, and now went clad in the garb of a respectable farmer, 
and denied himself nothing, one might have suspected 
something at least of the trouble which was hanging over 
the poor old man. 

“ David, I asked him, meeting him one day face to 
face so that he could not slip out of the way, ‘‘ why do you 
never come over to Sidcote? Have we offended you in any 
way?^’ 

“ No," he replied, slowly, as if he was thinking what he 
ought to reply — “ no; I don^t know exactly that you have 
offended me.'^ 

‘‘ Then why not come sometimes?" 

Why not?" he repeated. 

‘‘Come over this evening and tell us what you think 
about doing. " 

“ No. I donT think ! can go over this evening. " 

“ Well, then, to-morrow evening." 

“ No. I donH think I can go over to-morrow evening." 

“ Choose your own time, but come before I go back to 
London." 

“ When are you going back to London?" 

“ Next week." 

“ George will be turned out of his place before the end of 
the year. The old man told me so. Then he'll go too. 
Mary says she'll go with George. Then I shall be left alone 
with Uncle Dan." He laughed quietly. “ I think I shall 
go and live at Gratnor, and take care of him. We shall 
have happy times together, when you are all gone and I am 
left alone with him. " 


124 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 

‘‘ Why, David, you wouldn^t harm the poor old man 
nov7, would you?^’ 

Not harm him? not harm him? Did you ask him six 
years ago if he was going to harm me? Will he harm 
George Sidcote now?^^ 

You can not force a man to be sociable, nor can you force 
him to entertain thoughts of charity, forgiveness, and long- 
suffering. I made no more attempts to lead the man back 
to better ways and the old habits. 

The place where David lodged was a cottage made up by 
partitioning off a portion of the old farm-house of Berry; 
the other portion intended for another cottage, was without 
a tenant. The place stands among the dismantled farm- 
buildings, for Berry Farm is now worked with Gratnor. 
Around it was formerly the farm-yard, but the ducks and 
poultry, the pigs and cows, the dogs, the farm implements, 
and all the litter, mess, and noise of a farm, are gone now, 
and only the gates remain to show what formerly went on 
here. On the south side of the farm-yard there is a rill of 
clear spring-water running into a basin, and behind the rill 
rise the steep sides of Hayne Down. It is a quiet and 
secluded spot, with not a habitation of any kind within half 
a mile, and that only on one side. There are trees all 
round the place, and in the night a man living here alone 
would hear strange noises, and perhaps bring himself to 
see strange sights. But David, who had got rid of one 
ghost, had not yet, I believe, invented another. If one 
were sentimental, David might be portrayed alone in the 
cottage, sad, amid the pale ghosts of the past; he might be 
depicted sitting among the shadows of his childhood, before 
lie took to drink and evil courses, recalling the long-lost 
scenes of innocence, listening once more to the voice of his 
dead mother. All this might be easily set down, buT it 
could not be true: David had had enough of ghosts, and 
was not going out" of his way to look for any new ones. 
There is no doubt a luxury in conjuring up a ghost of any 
one, but if you have had one with you against your will 
for six years you are not likely to want another when that 
one is laid. 

One evening, toward the end of August, we had been 
walking with Mary on the Ridge till sunset drove us home. 
Then we left her at Gratnor, and walked back to Sidcote; 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


125 

but as the night was cool and fine, we took the longer way, 
which lies over Hayne Down and passes through Berry 
farm-yard. Certainly we had no intention of prying into 
David's private habits, but they were forced upon our 
notice, and a very curious insight was afforded us of how he 
spent his evenings. It speaks volumes for a man when we 
find that his idea of a cheerful evening is a song and a glass 
with a festive company. I was once on board ship, sitting 
in the smoking saloon, when some one asked what we should 
all like for that evening. Some spoke untruthfully, some 
affectedly, _ some bashfully, some with an open-hearted 
candor which astonished. At last one man, a quiet person 
in the corner, said, “ For my part, gentlemen, give me an 
evening with a party of Norfolk drovers." Ever since 
that evening I have ardently desired to spend an evening 
in such company, but I have not succeeded. If David had 
been there, he would have replied that he should choose a 
company where the drink was unlimited and the songs were 
convivial. 

It was not much past eight, and twilight still. It had 
been a hot day, and the evening was still warm, though not 
oppressive. David, however, had put up the green shutter 
which by day hung down outside the window, and he had 
closed the door. But in a cottage shutter there is always a 
lozenge-shaped hole at the top, and through this we per- 
ceived that there was a light in the room. 

“ David is at home," said George. “ Shall we call upon 
him?" 

Then — it was the most surprising thing I ever heard — ■ 
there was suddenly a burst of applause from the room. 
Hands and fists banged the table, glasses rang, heels were 
drummed upon the floor, and there was the bawling of loud 
voices, as it seemed. 

‘‘ Good heavens!" said George; ‘‘ David has got a party." 

We stopped, naturally, to listen. 

Then a song began. 

It was a drinking song, roared at the top of his voice by 
David himself. The song was one which I had never heard 
before, probably of American or Australian origin. As 
nearly as I can remember, the following were the words 
which we heard. But I may be wrong, and there were, 
perhaps, many more. The words are so sweet and tender. 


126 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


and have about them so much of delicacy and refinement, 
that I am sorry there are no more: 

“ Push the can about, boys, 

Turn and turn about, boys, 

Till the liquor’s out, boys. 

Let the glasses clink. 

Every man is bound, boys, 

To sing his song around, boys, 

Till we all are drowned, boys, 

. In the drink. 

Till we all are drowned, boys, 

In the drink.” 

“David is obliging the company/^ I said. “ ^Tis a 
pleasing ditty, George. 

He sung, as I have said, as loudly as he possibly could 
bawl it, in a voice naturally ropy; and as his musical edu- 
cation had been neglected, and his ear was defective, the 
tune was the most dismal and doleful I had ever heard. 
But, no doubt, he took it to be convivial and soul-inspiring. 

When he had finished there was another banging of tables, 
hollooing, and stamping on the fioor. 

“ AYho can the company be?^^ asked George. 

David began the song again, and repeated it half through. 
Then he left off suddenly and there was a dead silence. 

We listened, waiting to hear more. There was a dead 
silence; not a sound. 

“ What is the matter with them all?^^ 

“ I believe they are all struck dumb,^"' said George. 

The silence was complete. 

“I have it,^^said George. “I believe he is giving a 
party to himself in his own honor. He is all alone, and is 
having a convivial evening. It is very queer; makes one 
feel uncanny, doesn^t it?^^ 

This, indeed, was actually the case. Dancy holding a 
convivial meeting — a friendly lead — a harmonic evening — 
a free-and-easy — a singsong— all by yourself in a cottage 
half a mile from any other house, with the flowing bowl 
and glasses round, and three times three, and, no doubt, a 
doch and darroch to end with! 

“ I think, George,"^ I said, “ that David must have gone 
very low indeed. He could not have got much lower. 
There must be a depth, at some point, where a sinking man 
paeets with the solid rock. 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


Perhaps. The Lord keep us from beginning to sink! 
Will, do you think it jjossible, when that old man has taken 
iny land, and I have gone wandering about the world, and 
have come home in rags, that I should ever sink like David 
— and drag Mary with mer^^ 

^‘Nay, George; it is impossible. 

Then the roisterer began again, his voice being now dis- 
tinctly that of a man half drunk, from which we gathered 
that the interval of silence had been well employed: 

“ Every man is bound, boys, 

To sing bis song around, boys;” 

and then we went on our way. It seemed shameful even 
to listen. 

And all the time, every day, this man who got drunk at 
night alone was carrying on, slowly and ruthlessly, the 
most systematic revenge, with the most exquisite tortures. 
Ev^ery day he went to Gratnor and dangled before his vic- 
tim some of his property, and made him buy it back bit by 
bit, haggling over the bargain; letting his uncle have it one 
day cheap, so as to raise his spirits, and the next at nearly 
its full value, so as to crush him again; and even at times, 
after an hour^s bargain over a single coupon, he would put 
it in the fire and destroy it. 

When David went away, the poor old man would fall to 
weeping; this hard, dry old man, whom nothing ever moved 
before, would shed tears of impotent and bitter rage. But 
he refused to tell Mary what was troubling him. 

“I canT tell you what it is,^^ he said. “You don^t 
know what the consequences might be if I told you. Oh, 
Mary, I am a miserable old man! I wish I was dead and 
buried, and that it was all over — I wish it was all over!^^ 

There are many men who, when anything goes wrong 
with them, when Retribution— a very horrid specter — 
comes with cat-o^'-nine tails to pay them out, or when Con- 
sequence — another very ruthless spirit — brings along disease, 
poverty, contempt, or other disaster, never fail to wish that 
they were dead and buried. It is a formula expressing 
considerable temporary vexation, but little more. For if 
the well-known skeleton were to take them at their word, 
and to invite them to take part with him in a certain fes- 
tive procession and dance, they would make the greatest 
haste to excuse themselves, and to express their sincere regret 


128 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


at having given Madame la Mort the trouble of calling 
upon them. “ Another time, perhaps, if madame should 
be passing that way; but, indeed, there is no hurry; if 
madame will be so obliging as to — Goocl-movmng, 
madame. Again, a thousand pardons.'^ Mr. Leighan, 
perhaps, was more sincere than most men, for he loved 
but one thing in the world, and this was being slowly taken 
from him bit by bit. 

“It is something, said Mary, “ to do with David. I 
will go and speak to him about it. 

“ No, Mary; no!^"’ he cried, eagerly. “ Mind your own 
business, child. Don^t attempt to interfere. Oh! you 
don^t know what might happen if you interfered. 

“ It is David, then. Very well, uncle, I shall not ask 
him what it is.^^ 

“ I can^t tell anybody, Mary; I must bear it in patience. 
If I resist I shall only lose the more. Mary, weVe got to 
be very careful in the housekeeping now — very careful. 

“ I am always careful, uncle. 

“ There was a pudding again to-day. I canT afford any 
more puddings for a long while — not till Christmas. And 
I^m sure there’s waste and riot in the kitchen.” 

“ Nonsense, uncle! You not afford a pudding? Now, 
remember, you are not to be starved, and there’s no waste 
or riot. Now I’ll mix your brandy and water, and you can 
have your pipe, and go to sleep.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

WITH THE BEST IHTEHTIOHS. 

I TERMINATED my holiday with a meddling and a mud- 
dling. Of course I was - actuated by the best intentions. 
Every meddler and muddler is, otherwise he might be for- 
given. 

I was going back to town; it would be eleven months be- 
fore I should get another holiday; long before that time 
Sidcote would be out of George’s hands, and the pair would 
be married and gone. Was it possible to make an appeal 
to the old man? Could one touch him with the sense 
of gratitude? Could one make him feel that in his. own 
interests he should not drive away the only living creature 
who stood between himself and the hired service of stran- 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 129 

gers? Could one make him see that it would be far better 
for him to give the money to Mary than to David? 

I made my attempt — needless to say, since it was med- 
dling and muddling, with no success — on my last evening 
at Challacombe, when the old man had taken his tea, and 
might reasonably be expected to be milder than during the 
press of business in the morning. 

I had not seen him for three weeks. Remember that for 
more than three weeks David had been pursuing his scheme 
of revenge. I was struck with the change that had come 
over him during this short period. It was that subtle 
change which we mean when we say that a man has 
“aged.^^' In 'Mr. Leighan’s case, his hands trembled, he 
looked feebler, and there was a loss of vitality in his eyes. 

“ What do you want?’’ he asked, impatiently. ‘‘You 
are come for Mary? Well, she isn’t here. You ought to 
know that she always goes out after tea. You will find 
her somewhere about — on the Ridge or down the lane, 
somewhere.” He turned his head and took up his pen 
again. I observed that he was poring over a paper of fig- 
ures. 

“No, Mr. Leighan; I came to see you.” 

“ What do you want with me? Money? No; you are 
one of the people who don’t want money. The last time 
you came you brought me my bag, with, the twenty pounds 
in it. That was very little good, cousidering; but it was 
something. You haven’t got another bag of money, have 
you?” 

“ No; I have come to see you about George and Mary.” 

“ Go on, then. Say what you want to say. When a 
man is tied to his chair he is at the mercy of every one 
who comes to waste his time.” 

This was encouraging. However, I spoke to him as elo- 
quently as I could. I told him he ought to consider how 
Mary had been his housekeeper and his nurse for six long 
years, during which he had been helplessly confined to his 
chair. If he refused his consent to her marriage she would 
go away, not only from his house, but from the parish; he 
would be left in the hands of strangers, who would waste 
and spoil his substance. I thought that would move him. 

“ Young man,” he said, “ I never asked for or expected 
any other service than what is paid for. Mary’s services 
0 


130 


TO CALL HER 


have been paid for. If she goes I shall find another per- 
son, who will be paid for her services. 

“ Nay,^^ I replied, “ you can not possibly rate Mary’s 
services with those of a paid housekeeper. You will very 
soon find the difference. However, if that is your way of 
looking at the matter, I caii say no more.” 

Then I spoke of George and of liis mortgage. If Mr. 
Leighan gave his consent, no money would be lost, because 
Mary’s fortune would pay off nearly the whole of the 
mortgage. And, besides, he would keep Mary near him, 
if not with him. A great deal more I said, which need 
not be set down. 

“Young man,” he said, when I concluded, “ you are 
a writing person, and you speak as if you were writing for 
the newspaper which employs you. Business you know 
nothing of. But, young man, sentiment must not come 
in the way of business.” 

1 exclaimed that it was not sentiment, but common sense, 
gratitude and good feeling. 

“ As for common sense, that belongs to business; as for 
gratitude, Mary has had her board and her bed, and she’s 
done her work to earn her board and her bed; I don’t see 
any call for gratitude there; as for good feeling, that’s my 
business. Now, young man, George Sidcote’s land is 
mortgaged. As he says he can no longer pay the interest, 
I have sent up the case to London and have got the usual 
order; he has six months in which to pay principal and in- 
terest. At the end of that time, because he can’t and won’t 
pay, his land will be mine. As for what is done afterward, 
I promise nothing. ” 

“You will lose Mary, for one thing. ” 

“ I have told you that I, in that case, shall hire another 
person.” 

“ Very well. You will have to pay Mary’s fortune to 
her cousin David, because she will marry without your 
consent.” 

“ Have the goodness, Mr. Will Nethercote, to leave me 
to my own affairs. ” 

“ This affair is mine as well as yours. Do you prefer 
David to Mary? You must choose between them, you 
know. I have read the will.” 

“Oh! you think you have got me between the two, do 
you?” 


TO CALL HER MIHE. 


131 


“Ido/’ 

“ Then perhaps you are wrong. And now go away, and 
meddle no more. ” 

Now I declare that in saying what I did say next I spoke 
without the least knowledge. • It was a random shot. 

“ You think,” I said, ‘^that David does not know of his 
aunt’s will. You hope that he will go away presently 
without finding out.” He started and changed color, and 
in his eyes I read the truth. He thought that David would 
never find out. “ So, Mr. Leighan,” I went on, ‘‘ that is 
in your mind. He lives alone, and speaks to no one; his 
aunt died after he went away; it is very possible that he 
does not know anything about it. Good heavens! Mr. 
Leighan, were you actually thinking to hide the thing from 
him, and so to rob him? Yes; to rob Mary first and David 
afterward of all this money?” 

“ What business is it of yours?” he asked 

“ Very good; I shall tell David.” 

“ Oh! if I were thirty instead of seventy, I would — ” he 
began, his eyes flashing again with all their ancient fire. 

“ I shall go to David, Mr. Leighan. If, as I believe, he 
knows nothing about it, you will see how he will receive the 
news. Yes; you shall be between the two; you shall choose 
between David and Mary. ” 

Yes; I had stumbled on the exact truth as accidentally 
as I had stumbled on the canvas bag. David did not know, 
nor had his uncle chosen to inform him — though he was 
certain from his talk that he did not know — of his aunt’s 
will, deeply as it affected him. And I am now quite certain 
that the old man thought that David would not find out 
the truth before he went away again, and so he would keep 
the money to himself. 

“ Don’t tell him. Will,” said the old man, changing his 
tone. “ Don’t interfere between David and me; it is dan- 
gerous. You don’t know what mischief you may be doing. 
Don’t tell him. As for George and Mary, I will arrange 
something. They shall go on at Sidcote as tenants on easy 
terms — on very easy terms. But don’t tell David. He 
is a very dangerous man. Don’t tell him.” 

“ I will not tell him anything, if you will give Maiy your 
consent.” 

“ David will not stay here long. When he has gone — oh, 


132 


TO CALL HER MIITE, 


dear! — when he has got some more money he will go away. 
Don't tell him." 

“ You have to give that money either to Mary or to 
David. Choose!" I repeated. 

Who are you, I should like to know," he asked, with a 
feeble show of anger, that you should come and interfere 
in family matters? What business is it of yours? Go away 
to London. Manage your own affairs — if you've got any. 
You are not my nephew." 

“ That is quite true. I am George's friend, however, 
and Mary's friend. I am going to do my best for both. 
Oh, Mr. Leighan, all your life long you have been schem- 
ing and plotting to get money and land. You think that 
you have laid your terms so as to turn George out of his 
land; and the prize looks vere nearly in your grasp. But 
David has come back: that alters the aspect of affairs. 
You can no longer refuse your consent and hold that 
money in pretended trust for a man you believed to be 
dead. You must hand it over to him — the whole of it. I 
do not know whether he can not force you to pay him 
back the interest upon it since it has been in your hands. 
You may be quite sure that he will extort from you the 
uttermost farthing. Well, you have the choice. Either 
give your consent to Mary or prepare to treat with David. 
Why, you have said yourself, business before sentiment. 
Here is business, indeed, before you. Trust yourself 
to the affection of your niece and the friendship of George, 
the truest man in the world, or else give yourself over to 
the deadly hatred of a man who desires nothing so much as 
to revenge himself upon you. Why, he has avowed it. 
He will do you — he says it openly — all the mischief he 
can." 

“He is doing that already. And yet — don't tell him. 
Will — let us arrange something. George shall be my ten- 
ant. And when I die, I shall leave all my property to 
Mary — Foxworthy, Gratnor, Berry Down, and Sidcote. 
Think of that. She will be the richest woman in Challa- 
combe. " 

“ Ho," I replied. “ Choose between Mary and David." 

“ I must have Sidcote," he said, with a kind of moan. 
The poor man had certainly aged very much in a few 
weeks. He clutched at the arms of his chair, his face 
twitched covulsively, and he spoke feebly. “ I have lost 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


133 

SO much lately — I have suffered so horribly — ^you don't 
know how, young man, or you would pity me. I have 
been punished, perhaps, because I was too prosperous — ^you 
don't know how, and you can't guess. If I lose Sidcote, 
too, I shall die. You don't know, young gentleman — ^you 
don't know what it is to suffer as I have suffered!" 

He looked so dejected and so miserable that I pitied him, 
grasping and avaricious as he had always been. The ran- 
som of his coupons, day by day, had entered into his soul, 
though this I knew not at the time. And now I was going 
to take away the only consolation left to him — the pros- 
pect of getting Sidcote and of keeping Mary's fortune. 

“ I must have Sidcote," he said. 

“ Then I shall go at once to David and tell him." 

I must have Sidcote. Do your worst!" he cried, with 
some appearance of his old fire and energy. “ Do your 
worst. Tell David what you please, and leave me to deal 
with David. I will — " He shook his head and pointed to 
the door. 

Very well, I would go and tell David. As the event 
happened, I should, perhaps, have done better to have kept 
silence. But one could not tell beforehand what was going 
to happen. 

In fact, I told David that very evening. 

He was sitting at his table, a large open book before 
him, over which he was poring intently. The window was 
open, for it was a hot evening, and not yet sunset. A bot- 
tle of spirits stood on the table, with a tumbler and a jug 
of cold water, ready for drinking-time, which I gathered 
would shortly begin. 

He looked up when he heard my step outside, and shut 
the book hurriedly. 

“ What do you want here?" he asked, roughly. “ Why 
do you come prying after me?" 

‘‘Don't be a fool, David," I replied. “If you come 
outside, I will tell you why I came." ^ 

He hesitated a moment and then came out. Really, I 
'think he looked more disreputable — that is to say, lower — 
than when he arrived in rags. A man may, perhaps, be in 
rags, and yet not be disreputable : he may wear them pict- 
uresquely, he may even wear them with dignity. Not that 
David was either picturesque or dignified on his arrival. 
Yet he looked better, somehow, than now, when he had 


134 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


been at home a month. Strong drink and plenty of it, the 
satisfying of revenge and hatred, the want of work and 
exercise, had already written their evil marks upon his 
countenance, which was bloated and evil-looking. 

“ Upon my word, David, "" I said, “ one would think 
we were old enemies instead of old friends. 

“ Speak up, then,^^ he replied, his eyes suspicious and 
watchful, as if I was trying to get into his cottage and steal 
something. “ Speak up; let a man know your business. 
If you had no business you would not come here, I take it. ” 
It is business that may concern you very deeply, I 
said. And then I told him. 

“ Well,^' he said, slowly, I suppose you mean honest, 
else why should you tell me? Perhaps you\e got a score 
against the old man, too. 

“ Not I, David. I am not his debtor 

“ He never told me. He might have told me a dozen 
times. David sat on a bowlder and began to turn the 
thing over. “ This wants thinking of, this does. So the 
old woman had six thousand, had she? She began with 
one, and Mary^s mother had one — a thousand each; and 
my father had Berry Down, and Uncle Daniel he had 
Gratnor. She lived with him, and he told her what to do 
with her money; so in forty years she made six thousand of 
it; and Mary is to have it if she marries with her nucleus 
consent — and if she doesnT, I^m to have it. ” 

“ That is exactly the state of the case.^^ 

“ If Mary marries George without the old man^s con- 
sent,^"' he repeated, ‘‘ he^ll have to give me all that money 
— six thousand pounds.-’^ 

‘‘ Mary will marry George with or without her uncle’s 
consent; I can tell you that beforehand. She will marry 
him within a very few weeks. ” 

“ Nay,” he said; rather than give me the money he’d 
let her marry the blacksmith.” 

‘‘Well; I have told you.” 

“ Why,” he said, “ rather than give me the money he’d 
let her marry the devil. ” 

At this point I came away, for fear he might try even to 
get beyond that possibility; and the mess I had almost made 
of the whole business proves, as I said before, that there is 
no excuse whatever for the best intentions. 


TO CALL HEE MINE. 


135 


CHAPTEB XVI. 

DAVID MAKES A PKOPOSAL. 

“ Quick, David, quick cried the old man eagerly. 
“ Let us get to work. Oh! you waste half the morning; 
let us get on. At this rate,"'"' he sighed, we shall take 
months before I have got back the property. 

“ There will be no trade this morning, uncle/’ David 
replied, standing in the door-way. It was a week after I 
had told him the truth. He had been turning it over in 
his mind in the interval. 

“ Why not? David, if you were nearly seventy you 
would be anxious to get on; you would not shilly-shally 
over a single bit of paper. Let us get on, David. Oh! 
youVe got all the power now, and I am in your hands. I 
won^t grumble, David. No; take your own time, my boy ; 
take your own time. 

The poor old man was strangely altered in four or five 
weeks, that he should thus humble himself before his 
nephew. But David had all the power so long as he had 
any of those coupons left. 

We go so slowly, David; and I am so old. 

David sat down with great deliberation, and as if he 
meant to stay a long time. But he had not with him his 
book of coupons. 

“ Surely not too slow for you, uncle. Why, you are a 
patient man, if ever there was one. How many years did 
you wait, laying your lines to catch me and my land? No 
one can go too slow for you if he only keeps moving in the 
right direction. How many years have you lain low for 
George Sidcote? No — no; not too slow for you.^^ 

“ I^m an old man now, David. Let me have done with 
the business at once. 

“ Not too slow for me,^^ David went on; “ why, I can 
wait ten years. It is such a treat, you see, for me to be 
selling you your own property, and to watch you buying it, 
that I could go on forever. I really could. I think that 
he spoke the truth here, for the man was implacable 
and pitiless, and enjoyed every day more and more the 
spectacle of his uncle lying at his feet begging for mercy. 


136 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


If any gleam of jity softened his soul, the sight of the fields 
which had once been his hardened it again. 

‘‘ You little thought when I came home that I was going 
to give you so much trouble, did you, Uncle Daniel? You 
thought you had the whip-hand over me always, didn^t you? 
But you see: first the fall from your pony, then the loss of 
your papers, then the stroke, then my coming home and 
finding those papers — all part of the judgment!— and now 
there’s more to follow.” 

“What more? Oh, David! what more?” the helpless 
old man only groaned. 

Think of it. Outside, the splendid sun of August lay 
over the hills and combes, the woods and fields: the place 
was the most rural spot in all England, the furthest re- 
moved from the haunts of men and the vices of cities; in 
the next room was the most innocent girl in the world; 
close by was the little hamlet of Watercourt, where the 
people might be rude, and perhaps unwashed, but were yet 
full of the simple virtues which linger among country folk. 
And here, in this room, in an atmosphere of age and weak- 
ness, the fire burning in midsummer, the 'windows closed, 
were an old man, paralyzed and near his end, yet plotting 
and planning for the money he could never use, and a 
young man playing upon him a scheme of revenge worthy 
of the good old days when a king thought nothing of pulling 
out a Jew’s teeth one by one until he parted with his coin. 

“ To-day, uncle, I have come to talk about my aunt’s 
will.” 

“ Then he told you? He said he would. ” 

“ Will Nethercote told me: you did not. You thought 
that as soon as our little business was finished I should go 
away and never come back any more. You thought you 
would keep the money, did you? Not so, uncle; not so!” 

“ He told you, did he? I wish I could be even with Will 
for that.” 

“ You can’t, you know, because he has got no land; 
and so you can’t lay any plots and plans for him.” 

“ I thought you would never find it out, David,” Mr. 
Leighan confessed, with somewhat surprising candor.' “ I 
soon found that you knew nothing about it, and that you 
never go about and talk; and I was pretty certain that you 
would never find out. Well, now you know, what differ- 
ence does it make? You are no nearer the money. ” 


TO CALL HER MINE. 137 

“We shall see. My aunt might just as well have left it 
to me as to you. To be sure, I never thought she had half 
so much. She began with a thousand. She must have 
pinched and saved. ” 

“ She was a wise and a thrifty woman, and she under- 
stood, with my help, how to place her money to the best 
advantage. She ought to have leffc it all to me, because I 
made it for her. She always said she would. But there — 
you can never trust a woman in a matter of real impor- 
tance. And, besides, she was two years younger than me, 
and thought to outlive me. Well, well!^^ 

“ She left it to Mary, on the condition of her marrying 
with your consent; and, if not, the money was to go to me. 
And if I was dead— and you pretended to think I was dead 
— the will said nothing. So you thought you could stick 
to the money. Uncle, you^re a foxy one! You ought to 
be in the States, and thirty years younger. There you 
would find yourself at home, with plenty of opportunity. 
Well, I am wiser now than I was. And see now, uncle, I 
donT mean to go away until this question is settled. What 
are you going to do?^^ 

“ Why should I tell you?^^ 

“ Keep it to yourself, then. I will tell you what you 
thought you were going to do. I\e worked it all out. 
First, if you let George and Mary get married before the 
law lets you take Sidcote, you will lose Sidcote.^^ He 
began, in his slow way, to tick off his points upon his 
fingers. “ That^s first thing. After you have got 
Sidcote, you will be still loath to let the money go, and 
you will keep Mary waiting on. You think that I shall 
soon go. Then you will keep the money as long as you 
live. But suppose they were to marry without your con- 
sent, all the money comes to me — comes to me. Very 
well, then; comes to me. That sticks, doesn^t it? You 
can let them marry now — and you will lose Sidcote; you 
can let them marry after you have got Sidcote; and you 
will have to pay up; if you keep on refusing your consent, 
you can keep the money as long as you like — unless they 
marry without. Then youVe got to give it to me — ^to me, 
uncle. You^ve had a taste of me already. 

He waited a little. His uncle said nothing, but watched 
him from under his long white eyebrows— not contemptu- 


138 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


ously, as on the first interview after his return, but with 
the respect due to the strength of the situation. 

“ Very well, then; you would rather give that money to 
Mary than to me. But you would like to get Sidcote; you 
hate the thought of giving it to me, you intended to keep 
it yourself. Yet there is no way out of it if you want Sid- 
cote. Perhaps you think you would give it to Mary, after 
you have got Sidcote. But suppose she marries before? 
then you would be obliged to give it all to me. See here 
— he put the dilemma once more as if to make it quite 
clear to himself, as well as to his uncle — ‘‘ if you give your 
consent now, you lose Sidcote; if you give it after you have 
got Sidcote, you will have to pay Mary all her fortune; if 
they marry without your consent, you will have to pay n>e 
all the money. Perhaps Mary will go on all your life wait- 
ing for consent; perhaps I shall go away; perhaps she will 
marry without your consent. Which would you like best'P^ 

“ Go on, David; perhaps you are going to propose some- 
thing.^^ 

“ I have been thinking things over, uncle. You are get- 
ting old, you may die any day; then Mary would be free. 
It is true that she might marry to-morrow, in which case I 
should be entitled to everything. But I don^t think she 
would be such a fool. If I were Mary, I should wait. You 
are seventy now, and youVe lost the use of your legs. You 
can^t last very long. I should wait, if I was Mary. Yes; 
it might be a year or two; it couldnH be longer. 

His uncle heard without any emotion this argument in 
favor of his approaching demise — country people use plain- 
ness of speech about such matters — but he felt himself very 
far from dying, as masterful men always do up to the very 
end. 

“ Well, David, supposing that what you say is common 
sense, what next? If Mary marries at once she is a fool, 
and then I have you to reckon with. There is a good bit 
outstanding on the old account, and I don^t suppose there 
would be much coming to you when compound interest 
and all comes to be reckoned up. 

“ As for your outstanding accounts, we shall see when 
the time conies. And as for compound interest, it will be 
for you to pay that on my aunt^s six thousand pounds. 

“ The interest went for the keep of Mary. ” . 

“ I haven ^t heard that there's a word about that in the 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


139 


will. You\e had her services as housekeeper for five 
years, and you\e pocketed the interest. Why, I take it 
that you made five per cent. That^s three hundred a year. 
There will be a beautiful day of reckoning, uncle. The 
sale of your coupons is nothing to it.^' 

“ You were going to make a proposal, David?^^ 

“ Not a proposal — not exactly an offer. What do you 
say to this, uncle? Mary won't be such a fool as to marry 
yet. If she doesn't you've only got to keep on refusing 
your consent, and then she must either marry without or 
not marry at all — " 

“ David, it's a terrible misfortune that you are come 
back," his uncle interrupted. 

“Ifcis_to you. Well, she must either mar^ without 
your consent or not marry at all as long as you live. You 
will live a year or two longer. Then you will die, and she 
will have the whole of it. That is so, isn't it?" 

“ Go on." 

“ Buy me off, old man." 

“ Always buy — always buy!" 

‘‘To be sure. You've got to buy your own property 
back, because I've come home. You've got to buy me out 
on the chance of the money coming to me. Please your- 
self. What do you say to buying me out at a thousand?" 

“ A. thousand pounds!" 

“Yes, Dncle Daniel; a thousand pounds. And a very 
moderate figure too. Consider: if they were to get mar- 
ried, you'll make five thousand by the bargain, not to speak 
of interest. If they don't, you'll have the satisfaction of 
giving your nephew a thousand pounds back out of the 
property you've robbed him of." 

‘^A thousand pounds!" 

“ That is the figure, uncle. Is it a deal? 

“ I'll think of it, David. A thousand pounds! 1 11 
think it over." 

Said I not that persons with the best intentions can never 
be forgiven? Here were matters worse than ever: the old 
man's heart hardened the more; his cupidity awakened; 
and David with a deeper treachery in his mind to take re- 
venge upon his uncle. And all my fault! 


140 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


CHAPTER XVIL 

A GLEAM OF LIGHT. 

One has had to say so many hard things of the unfortu- 
nate David, and he appears in so singularly unattractive a 
light, that it is pleasant, before one parts with him alto- 
gether, to record one occasion on which he showed a gleam 
of a better self surviving the degradation of six years. In 
fact, David had not reached that lowest of all levels, that 
solid rock, that hard pan, which is, in fact, the Earthly 
Hell. Doubt not that it exists, though perhaps we look 
for it in vain among the rags and tatters of the direst pov- 
erty. It is not there that we shall find it. In this dismal 
stratum the men and women live wholly for themselves, 
and fight and grab, and waste and devour, intent only on 
getting all that there is to be had, each for himself, of 
roasted meats and strong drink, and the pleasures which 
are symbolized by these. It is a land of Purity — of Pure 
Selfishness, that is — unmixed and unabashed. Perhaps 
David sojourned awhile in that country during the myste- 
rious period when he tramped, ambled, trampled, roamed, 
wandered, and vagabondized somewhere across the great 
continent of North America. He came out of it, I think, 
when he left California, after a series of adventures which 
would have done credit to a freebooter or a filibuster; but 
concerning which we had glimpses only all too short for the 
natural curiosity of man. 

He came home with those six years of wandering upon 
his back; every year adding its contribution to the great 
bundle of debasement which he carried. Pilgrim Christianas 
burden, though it does not appear to have grown smaller 
between the time when he began to groan under it until 
the time when he cast it off, is not recorded to have grown 
bigger. David^s, alas! grew bigger every day. Unhap- 
pily, too, he was as unconscious of his burden as if it had 
been a hump. He came home debased; he was below the 
level of the honest laborers once his servants; and he was 
possessed by the Evil Spirit of Hatred, which tilled him 
always and all day long with thoughts of revenge, pitjless 
and cruel. And yet he had not fallen quite into the Earth- 


TO CALL HUR MINE, 


141 


ly Hell. It was Mary who found this out. I suppose it 
was only to be expected, if anybody should discover a weak 
spot in a man'’s Whole Armor of Selfishness, that it should 
be such a girl. 

She went to plead with him for her uncle. He was in 
the deserted farm-yard of Berry, with its tumble-down 
buildings. He leaned against the gate, a pipe in his mouth, 
thinking always of the fields he had lost, and the way in 
which they had been taken from him. It is unwholesome 
for a man to sit in the place which had been his, and to be 
brooding day after day upon how he lost it. Boabdil had 
few days of joy left to him, I dare say, after he rode away 
from Granada; but his mild sorrow and the resignation of 
his latter years would have been turned to madness had he 
continued to live within the walls of the city, and marked, 
day by day, the insolence and triumph of his conquerors. 

While David looked before him, thinking of the past, 
and carefully forgetting all his own share in his ruin, as 
was his wont, and fanning the fierce fiames of resentment 
within him, as was also his wont, he became aware that his 
cousin Mary was coming up the lane. Of course his first 
thought was to get out of her way; but as he thought 
slowly, and Mary walked quickly, there was no time to 
carry that idea into effect. 

“Don't run away, David," she said; “I came to talk 
with you. " 

“ Well," knocking the ashes out of his pipe, which was 
done, “ come through the gate then, Mary. Will you talk 
in the cottage, or will you talk here?" 

“ Let us stay outside— here in the shade, David. Do 
you guess what I have come to say?" 

“I might guess," he replied, slowly; “on the other 
hand, again, I might not. Better say it, Mary. " 

“ It is this, cousin. When will you cease to worry your 
uncle?" 

“ Did he tell you that I worry him? Has he been com- 
plaining?" . 

“ No. He even denies that you have any share in the 
new trouble that seems to have fallen upon him. But I 
know that it is caused by you. After every one of your 
morning visits he is miserable. Every day he grows more 
nervous and more irritable. He sheds tears vvhen he is 


U2 


TO CALL* HER MIKE. 


alone — I have seen him, David. I am quite sure that you 
are the cause of his trouble. 

“ Well, Mary, perhaps you are right. I may be the 
cause of it. Perhaps I may be the cause of a good deal 
more trouble before I have done. 

“Oh! David, think — he is an old man; he is afflicted 
with paralysis; you are hastening his end. What good will 
it do to you if you worry him into Iiis grave? Will that 
restore the past? Will that make you what you used to 
be?^^ 

“ Nay, that it will not do. But when I see him at my 
mercy, crying for pity, I think of the day when I came to 
ask him to lend me a poor fifty pounds, with which to try 
my luck in Canada, and he laughed me in the face.^^ 

“ Well, then, David, does it do you any good to remem- 
ber that day?^^ 

“ Yes^^ — he added a great oath, meaning that it did 
him an extraordinary amount of good to remember that 
day. 

“ I can not believe that. Let the past be dead, David, 
and live for the future. 

“You don^t know what you are saying, Mary. What 
should you know about it? You are only a girl^' — he 
spoke roughly and rudely, but not unkindly — “ what do 
you know? Let the past be dead? Why, all the world is 
crying because the past wonH die. I only wish the past 
would die.^^ Here, it seems to me, David hit upon a pro- 
found truth: for very nearly all the world — not quite — it 
would be, unhappily, far better if the past would die. 

“ Resolve that it shall die, David, and live for better 
things. 

“ If the past should die,^^ he said, slowly, leaning one 
arm over the gate — “ if the past should die, Mary, I should 
forget that I was once a substantial man, who sat respected 
at the market ordinary, rode my own horse, and farmed 
my own land. I should forget that I had to go away from 
my native place, and take ship with the lowest emigrants. 
I should forget—Mary,^^ he whispered, “ I can trust you — 
I have told no one else — I should forget that I had been in 
prison — ^yes, in prison — 

“ David She shrunk from him, but recovered, and 
laid her hand softly upon liis. 

“ Yes; in prison. And now I ani no longer fit to sit 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 143 

and talk with George and you. But I am fit to talk with 
my uncle, because, bad as I am, he is worse. 

But if he is, David, if he is, forgive him.^^ 

‘‘ Never!" Again he swore a great oath, almost as great 
as that of the Norman king. “ I will never forgive him 
or forget him. Such as I am now, he made me. Mary, 
donH ask me to forgive him. He had no mercy upon me, 
and I will have none upon him.^^ 

“ When it is all over, David, and your uncle is dead, will 
it please you to think of your revenger" 

“ Yes, it will; I shall always be pleased to think that I 
could pay back something — I don^t care how much — of 
what he made me sulfer. Look at me, Mary, and remem- 
ber what I was. Do you think 1 can not remember too?^^ 

“ Oh, David! But to keep alive such a spirit of re- 
venge !^^ 

“ Wait, Mary; he has got George in his grip now. Wait; 
if George goes away and wanders about like me, and' takes 
to drink and bad companions, and comes back to you in 
rags, with the past that won^t die — and a prison, may be — 
would you ever forgive your uncle for sending him away" 

“ God forbid that I should be so tempted!" said the girl, 
shuddering. 

“You don^t know what may happen, therefore don’t 
come to me about my uncle. Why, cousin, if you only 
knew what is in his mind about you this minute, you would 
say ‘ Stick to him, David; worry him like a terrier with a 
rat — squeeze the life out of him!’ That is what you would 
say, Mary.’’ 

“ No! Whatever is in his mind, I could not say that; I 
believe that I could not even think it.’’ 

‘ ‘ Why, you have been his housekeeper and his servant 
for five long years, without any wages — ’’ 

“ No, I have kept my fowls," said Mary. 

“ And you’ve looked after the old man as no other wom- 
an in the world would have done; you’ve borne with his 
bad temper and his miserly habits, and now his reward is to 
rob your lover of his land and to cheat you out of your fort- 
une. Y^et you want me to spare him!" 

Great passions are commonly supposed to belong exclu- 
sively to great men. A Louis Quatorze is so great and 
grand that he consigns a Fouquet to a lifelong prison, and 
condemns ther man with the Iron Mask to be doomed to ob- 


144 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


livion utter. A Louis Onze, another great king, keeps an 
enemy^long years in a cage in which he can not stand up- 
right. ' There are many noble and spirit-stirring stories of 
the implacable hatred and wrath of kings and nobles, and 
some of the gods of Olympus. But that a rough and com- 
mon man, degraded by his own vices, fallen from his own 
respectable condition, should entertain such an implacable 
passion of revenge — that seems, indeed, remarkable. 

“ I will worry him,^' said David, as long as I can. I 
will never spare him. I\e got another — But never 
mind. Oh I when you are gone, Mary, he shall have a life 
that he little dreams of nowl^^ 

David! It is terrible. Can nothing move your’^ 

“ Nothing, Mary; not even you. And mind you, donT 
try to put yourself between him and me, because he wonT 
stand it. It isnT me that wonT stand it, because I donT 
greatly care who knows; but it^s him. He likes me to 
come; he watches for me and waits for me, though he 
knows that when I am gone he will turn and wriggle in his 
chair, and cry and curse. Yet he wants me back. Say no 
more about it, Mary. 

It was indeed useless to try further persuasions. Mary 
was silent. Her cousin, worked up by his wr^h, stood 
before her with purple cheeks and flaming eyes. 

“I must go away soon,” she said. “I can not let 
George go out into the world without any one. And then 
I must leave him — alone. ” 

“ Yes; but he will have me” said David, grimly. 

“Well, I have said what I came to say, David, and I 
have done no good. If you would only forget. ’ ^ 

“ I can not forget. Stay, Mary: one thing I must say. 
Remember afterward that I said it in time. Then, per- 
haps, youfll think that if it hadnT been for him I might 
have been a different man. ” 

“ What is it, David?' ^ 

“ It is this." His face softened the moment he ceased 
to think upon his wrongs. It was but the wreck of a face 
which had once been handsome and full of hope; but it 
was better and healthier to look upon than the face black 
with revenge. “ Will tells me that you are going to marry 
George without your uncle's consent?" 

“Yes." 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


145 


“ You know that he must then give me the whole of my 
aunt^s money. 

“Yes." 

“ Very well, Mary. I am fooling him. Never mind 
how. But you shall not be wronged. You shall have all 
your fortune. Marry George without any fear. Remember 
— you shall not be wronged! I am as bad as you like, but 
I will not rob you, Mary, I will not rob you!^^ 

Said I not that David had not sunk to the lowest level of 
the Earthly Heli? For that one promise of his, that he 
would not wrong the girl, I forgive him all the rest. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY. 

Perhaps the chief advantage of being a journalist is that 
you are expected to writ^ upon every conceivable subject, 
and must, consequently, whether you are a person of curi- 
osity and ardent in research or not, be continually acquir- 
ing new knowledge, and always storing up freshly acquired 
facts. No one, therefore, is so wise as an aged journalist 
— the older the wiser — until there comes a time when his 
memory begins to fail. After that he can sit at the dinner- 
table and talk as ignorantly as his neighbors. 

As for me, I am every day hunting up something or other 
to illustrate and explain the startling telegram which never 
fails to arrive once a day. I have traveled — in a library — 
with this object over the whole face of the habitable globe. 
I think I know every island in the Pacific and every other 
ocean, its discovery, its early and its later history. The 
whole course of human history is at my fingers’ ends, be- 
cause I know exactly what volumes, on what shelves, con- 
tain what I want. The whole circle of the sciences is known 
to me— that is to say, I know where to look for a popular 
account of each, and where to find illustrations and anec- 
dotes. The social life of every country is familiar to me, 
from the court to the cottage, because I know where the 
books about it can be found; in fact, I am the Admirable 
Crichton of the day. 

1 would not -proclaim my own virtues so loudly were it 
not that, first, we do not get the credit due to us — the novel- 
ists, poets, and dramatists running oif with all the glory; 


146 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


and, secondly, that it was entirely due to my professional 
versatility that the Keign of Terror which King David had 
established at Gratnor was swept aside, and King David 
himself dethroned, and this, too, in a most surprising and 
unexpected manner. One would not, at first sight, be in- 
clined to connect the fortunes of Mary Nethercote with the 
Royal Geographical Society. Yet— but you shall hear. 

It was heard in the office of the paper which has been 
fortunate enough to secure my services that there was to be 
held a special meeting, on an evening early in October, of 
the Royal Geographical Society, in order to hear a paper 
read by a German traveler recently arrived in Europe, after 
a lengthened stay in the South Sea Islands. Reader, you 
have perused the first two chapters of this history, and 
with your unerring sagacity you divine the rest. Never- 
theless, I will tell it in order, though more briefiy than if 
you had not already partly anticipated the reading of that 
paper. 

I was instructed to write a leading article upon this 
paper. The inexperienced person would have procured a 
ticket; attended the meeting, made notes, and rushed 
away at ten o^clock in order to write his article before mid- 
night. For myself I employed means which it is not nec- 
essary to describe — though, perhaps, they were immoral — 
in order to procure a private view of that paper before it 
was read in public. Consequently, with the help of a cer- 
tain work of which I knew, and the presence of the map to 
keep one from going geographically or longitudinally 
wrong, I produced a leading article which gratified my 
chief and pleased the public. The paper read before the 
•Society was on the people, the resources, and the natural 
history of that interesting island called New Ireland, of 
which I had never heard before. I took the precaution, 
after writing it, of attending the meeting; not that I 
wanted to hear the paper and the discussion, because I hate 
papers and discussions, but because I wished to be certain 
that the meeting really came off, and to be able to add any 
little detail as to the proceedings. A dreadful thing once 
happened to an unhappy critic who described a concert 
from the programme alone, without going to hear it. Most 
unhappily, he permitted himself to make certain strictures 
upon the performers. I say most unhappily, because— a 
thing he could never have foreseen — that concert was at 


TO CALL HEE MIKE. 


147 

the last moment unavoidably postponed, an accident which 
led to his connection with the paper being severed. There- 
fore I repaired to the theater of the London University and 
took a back seat high up in order to witness the proceed- 
ings. I do not remember to have heard it observed by any 
one, but it is a remarkable fact that if you sit high up and 
look down upon the heads of the attendant Fellows of the 
Geographical Society beneath, you become presently aware 
that they have all gone bald at the top — not, I believe, so 
much from age as from a geographical sympathy with the 
North Pole. 

At the hour of eight the chairman entered with his cap- 
tive traveler. The latter, certainly one of the tallest and 
finest men I have ever beheld, took his place in front of liis 
maps, and began, after the usual introduction, to read his 
paper. 

Of course I knew it all beforehand, and could look, like 
the governess who takes the girls to a lecture on astronomy, 
as if that and all other sciences were equally familiar to 
me; yet it was more interesting spoken by this tall German 
— his name was Baron Sergius von Holsten — than read 
from the proofs. He spoke very good English, and as he 
went on added many new details to those he had originally 
set down. He had lived, it seemed, for many years among 
the natives of New Ireland, although they are cannibals 
and of great ferocity. In order to qualify for this dangerous 
enterprise he had first learned their language. Then he 
had himself conveyed to the shores, won the confidence of 
the people by some skill or secret knowledge, and stayed 
until he had acquired all the information upon them and 
upon their island that could be obtained. And he had the 
good luck to be taken off at last in safety by a ship that 
touched upon these inhospitable shores. 

After this paper was read, the usual irrepressible persons 
got up and began to discuss. At this point I retired to add 
a few things to my article and hand it in. I then repaired 
to the Savage Club, which at eleven o^ clock begins to be a 
cheerful place. Here I found, in fact, an animated circle, 
and among them my friend of the E.G.S., the Baron Ser- 
gius von Holsten, who had been brought by one of the 
members. 

It is always interesting to meet with men who have been 
on desert islands, or lived among cannibals, or traveled in 


148 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


those regions— now so few — where Messrs. Cook & Sons 
have no agents, and there are no hotels. It is enough for 
some people only to gaze upon such a man. For our part, 
at the Savage, we found the baron not only an interesting 
person and as well informed as a leader writer, but also a 
singularly amusing companion, and brimful of anecdotes 
and stories of all kinds, which he seemed delighted to pro- 
duce for our benefit. He took his tobacco very kindly, 
and had a quite pathetic affection — seeing how long he 
must have been deprived of it — for whisky and Apollinaris. 
Perhaps, however, he wished to emphasize the entente cor- 
diale between Great Britain and Germany by blending the 
two most important drinks produced in the two countries. 

We talked till late. At about three in the morning, 
when we had gone half round the world with him, and the 
waiter had brought the baron his twelfth tumbler — a man 
so big had surely the right to fill up three times to any 
other man^s once — he told us a very singular and surpris- 
ing story. 

He had not been tlie only European on the island all the 
time, he said. For six months or so he had a companion 
in the shape of a poor devil — an Englishman — who had 
been washed ashore upon a piece of timber, the only one, 
so far as he knew, who survived the wreck of the ship. 
The natives were going to spear this human jetsam, when 
he interfered and saved him, and continued to protect him 
until he was able to get him off the island in a vessel which 
came a-blackbirding. ‘‘ This fellow, said the baron, 
“ was the most intolerable creature in existence. Earlier 
in his existence he had committed a murder, and during 
the whole of his- stay on the island he was suffering agonies 
of remorse;, all day long he wept and groaned, and was 
afraid to leave me for fear of being speared — in fact, the 
young men took a pleasure in pretending to point their 
spears at him, observing the intensity of his terror. At 
night he would not sleep at a distance of more than a foot 
or so from me for fear. And he was always visited every 
night by the ghost of the respectable uncle whom he had 
slain. 

“ Hid you see the ghost? 

“ ISio, nor did I hear its voice. Yet it spent the best 
part of the night in abusing the poor man, and he in an- 
swering it with prayers and protestations. As for revenge. 


TO CALL HEE MINE. 


149 


I suppose no other murdered man ever took so much out 
of his murderer. Well, it was tedious. At length my 
Englishman declared that he desired nothing so much as to 
get away from the island, and give himself up to justice. 
If he could only make his way to Australia and then get a 
passage to England, he would give himself up and confess 
the whole truth. 

“ A lively companion!^' 

“ Yes. But to look at him you would think him a dull, 
heavy fellow, who seemed to have no spirit for such a des- 
perate deed. Well, I got him away at length, and was left 
happy at last and alone. Before he went, however, I wrote 
down, at his request, a statement of the murder; a confes- 
sion, in fact, which he and I witnessed. I warned him 
that I should make any use of it that I thought fit. As 
yet I have done nothing with it; and as I dare say he is 
dead by this time, I do not see why I should not tear it up. 
Here it is, however, written in my old note-book. 

He took it out of his pocket — a thick leather note-book, 
stuffed full of the notes which he had made during his res- 
idence in the place — and began to read: 

“ ‘ I, David Leighan, farmer, of the parish of Challa- 
combe by the Moor — ^ 

“ Halloo I cried, “ I know that man. There is only 
one David Leighan, and only one Challacombe.^^ 

“ Has he kept his promise and come home?'^ 

“ Yes. He came home three months ago.’’^ 

“ So. He is doubtless hanged by this time?^^ 

“ Why should he be hanged?^ ^ 

‘‘ For the murder which he confessed in this document. 
He was to give himself up to the police, and confess and 
take the consequences.^^ 

‘‘ But he has not murdered any one; at least, he has not 
confessed. 

“ He murdered his uncle, one Daniel Leighan, of the 
same parish. If he has not confessed, I must put these 
papers in the hands of justice."’^ 

Why, his uncle is alive still! What could he mean by 
confessing?^ ^ 

“ Then David must have been mad. In which case it 
seems a pity that I took so much trouble to save him from 
the stewpans. But here is his confession, and if it is a 


150 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


work of fiction, all I can say is that David is master of that 
art/^ 

“ May I read the confession 

He handed me the note-book, and I read it through. 
You, gentle reader, have, already had that advantage. 

When I had read the paper through I understood every- 
thing. I understood why he came to the church-yard in 
order to see the grave of liis victim; why he was so careless 
about his rags; why he was seized with that queer hysteric- 
al fit; why he was so moody and sullen; what it was that 
he took out of the hiding-place at Grimspound; what he 
was doing with the old man. Everything became clear; 
and one thing clearer than any other — that his uncle must 
be saved from him. 

‘‘ Herr Baron, I said, ‘‘ I must take you, if you please, 
all the way from London to Challacombe by the Moor. 
You must stand before David with this document in your 
hand, and prove tliat he is a murderer in intent and a rob- 
ber in fact. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE LAST APPEAL. 

Whek the harvest was over — it is later up among the 
hills than in the lowlands below —and the grain was in- 
gathered, and the work of the year completed, George be- 
gan to make his arrangements. He had received the formal 
notice and a six months' grace in which to find the money. 
There was no longer any doubt possible that he must leave 
Sidcote. He had now made it all out in his own mind. 
There would be enough money from the harvest to pay the 
half-year's interest; the land" would be foreclosed. And 
the sale of his stock, farm implements, furniture, and 
everything would leave him with a few hundreds to begin 
the world again. He would go to Tasmania; it seemed, 
from the books he read, the kind of country where a man 
might buy a small farm, and live upon the fruit of his own 
labor. 

‘‘ Let us," said Mary, ‘‘ make one last appeal to my 
uncle. We will go together, George. Perhaps he may re- 
lent even at the last." 


TO CALL HEK MIKE. 


151 


They made that appeal at aa unfortunate time. To be- 
gin with, it was in the morning, when David was still with 
his uncle; and in the second place, it was a morning when 
David had been abusing his position. The redemption 
value of the coupons, in fact, was at a preposterous figure, 
and the poor old man, torn by the desire to get back his 
property and by rage at the terrible ransom imposed upon 
it, was rapidly arriving at the condition in which his 
nephew loved to see him, when he lost his self-command, 
and in turns groveled, wept, protested, implored, cursed, 
and tried to bribe his nephew. It is well to draw a veil 
over this picture of sordid and ignoble revenge; of old age 
dragged in the dust of self-abasement; of baffled avarice 
and of ruthless malice. There had been a battle royal, and 
David, as usual, was the victor. No mere physical suffer- 
ing would have caused Daniel Leighan more cruel torture 
than this daily bargain over his own property; no mediseval 
poet could have invented a more crafty and complete re- 
venge. And outside, Arcady with its hanging woods glo- 
rious in the autumn sun, its streams hurrying downward 
under the trailing branches, with the red and yellow leaves 
of the bramble, and the scarlet berries of the mountain-ash, 
and the calm, silent mountains of Hey Tor and Blackdown 
across the combe; the peaceful farm-yard, with the famil- 
iar sounds of contented creatures enjoying life; the dog 
sleeping before the kennel, and the cat sleeping in the sun- 
warmed porch, and the water of the leet musically drop- 
ping, dropping forever, over the great wheel. In sweet 
Arcady man^s evil passions should be stilled, otherwise the 
joy and gladness of Arcady are banished, and it ceases to 
be that sweet and happy land. 

When they opened the door they found the old man 
trembling and shaking with the passions of impotence and 
rage. His face, livid and distorted, with haggard eyes, was 
turned upward in an agony of entreaty, to meet David^s. 
There was no passion in that face, nor any emotion except 
a calm and sober satisfaction, which might even have been 
holy gratitude, for David ^s heavy face was hard to read. 
He stood over his uncle ^s chair, dominating him, with a 
bundle of papers in his hand, regardless alike of prayers or 
imprecations. 

“ Wait a minute, George, he said. ‘‘ We have just 
finished our business, and a most pleasant half-hour we 


152 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


have spent, to be sure. Now, uncle — it is always pleasant, 
as everybody knows, to do business with my uncle — steady, 
I say, or you will have a fit — now, is it a deal, or shall I 
put this little packet into the fire? Quick! take it or leave 
it. That^s my figure 

‘‘ ril take it— oh! Ifil take it^" 

David laid the papers on the table instantly, and made a 
note in a pocket-book. 

“Pity,^’ he said, “that you would not come to terms 
sooner. You’d have spared yourself a great deal of trouble 
and time. But there, you always would have your way, 
and you enjoy beating a man down, don’t you?” His 
uncle did not look exactly as if he had enjoyed the last at- 
tempt. “ Now I’ve done, George.” 

Although he had finished his business, David did not re- 
tire, but took a seat — Mary’s seat — in the window, pre- 
pared to listen, and with the appearance of one interested 
in what was coming. 

“ What do you want, George?” Mr. Leighan asked, im- 
patiently. “Why do you come here while I am busy, 
Mary? I’m not so ‘strong as I was, and David made me 
angry. Wait a moment. David said something that 
angered me. Wait a moment. He doesn’t mean to anger 
me — no — no — but he does, sometimes.” 

He covered his face with his hands. Presently the trem- 
bling left him, and he recovered. 

“ Now,” he said, with a show of briskness, “ I am bet- 
ter again. What is it, George? If it is business, have you 
come to propose anything? You have got your legal no- 
tice, I believe? Yes. Then you know the conditions of 
the law, which I didn’t make. It is the same for me as for 
you. Pay me any other way, and keep your land. If no 
other way, I shall have your land. Is that sense, or is it 
not?” 

“ Hard common-sense,” said George. 

“So it is,” said David. “It’s always hard common- 
sense when he takes another man’s land.” 

“ Well, uncle, I have got nothing to say on that score.” 

“ I am sorry for you, George,” the old man went on; 
yet his face expressed a certain satisfaction. “ Nobody will 
blame you, I’m sure; or me either, for that matter; and 
when your poor father borrowed the money the land was 
worth three times as much as it is now, so that nobody will 


153 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 

blame him. Take a glass of brandy and water, George. I 
don^t expect ever to get the value of my money back. So 
we^re all losers by the hard times. ” 

^ “ He never offered me any brandy and water,^^ said Da- 
vid. But no one took any notice of the remark, which 
showed jealousy. 

“ I shall want a tenant, George, the old man went on, 
“ and we will not quarrel about the rent. Easy terms you 
shall have — oh! I shall not be hard with your father's son 
— and when you've got your head well above water again, 
we will consider about you and Mary. Don't think I shall 
be hard upon you." 

“No," said George; “ I am going to emigrate." 

“ To foreign lands, George? to foreign lauds? Has it 
come to that? Dear— dearf Mr. Leighan belonged to the 
generation which regarded emigration as the worst and last 
of evils. 

“lam going to Tasmania." 

“ Tut, tut; this is very bad. To foreign lands! David 
went to foreign Iands,and see how he came home. George, 
you had better stay at Sidcote and be my tenant." 

“ No," said George, shortly. “Well; the long and the 
short of it is, that we are here to-day — Mary and I — to ask 
your consent to our marriage." 

“ No, George; I shall not consent. What! let Mary 
marry a man who has lost his own land and is going to for- 
eign lands? Certainly not! not on any account!" j 

“ When your sister left Mary all her fortune — " 

“ It was mine by rights. I made it for her." 

‘ ‘ — She put in the clause about your consent to protect 
her. You know, as well as I, that she herself would never 
object to me for Mary's husband. " 

“ She began with a thousand pounds. By my advice she 
made it into six thousand pounds. Do you mean to tell 
me that I am to have no voice in the disposal of all this 
money?^’ 

“ This kind of talk will not help anybody. Well; I have 
had my answer, I suppose. Mary, dear, it is for you to 
choose between your uncle and me." 

“ I have chosen, George, you know well. Uncle, you 
will have to give that money to David or to me. Here is 
David, and here am I. To which of us will you give it?" 

“Suppose, Mary," David interposed — “suppose there 


154 


TO CALL HEB MINE. 


was a secret arrangement — I don^t say there is, but sup- 
pose there was — between your uncle and me. Suppose that 
I was to sell my chance for so much down, and he was to 
keep the rest. 

Uncle! you would not — ^you could not — do such a 
thing Mary cried. 

“ Suppose, I say — David went on — that arrangement 
was to exist. Then, you see, George and Mary — David 
put the thing in his slow and deliberate manner, so as to 
bring out the full meaning of the transaction — ‘^you see 
that if you donT marry without his consent, he will lose the 
money he^s got to pay me; but if he does not pay me that 
money before you get married, he will have to pay me the 
whole afterward. Therefore he naturally wants you to 
marry without his consent. You are going to play his game 
for him.^^ 

At this unexpected blow Daniel was covered with confu- 
sion. When two people make such a treaty, secrecy is the 
very essence of it; and for one of the parties concerned to 
blurt out the truth is, in a sense, a breach of contract. The 
old man actually turned red — at seventy he had still the 
grace to blush at being found out in a shameful job — and 
hung his head, but he could not speak. 

“Oh! you have speculated on our marrying without your 
consent! You have actually bought David^s chance, and 
now you want us to marry, so that you may keep the whole 
to yourself!^^ 

“ Not the whole, said David. “ What will be left after 
he has bought me out!^^ 

“ Mary,^^ her uncle replied, evading the question, which 
was not right. “ Mary — his voice was feeble and he 
trembled — “ why do you want to get married yet? Stay 
with me. Let Ueorge stay at Sidcote and be my tenant. 
And I will consider — I will consider. Besides, think, Mary; 
I am an old man now, and you will have all my money and 
all my land when I die. 

“ Have you bought up David so that you may keep the 
money as long as you please, by always refusing your con- 
sent? Answer that,^^ said George, hotly. 

“ I shall answer nothing,'^ Daniel replied, angrily — 
“ nothing-— nothing! You have come here and asked for 
my consent to your marriage. Very well; I refuse it. 
Now you can go. 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


155 

‘‘ Mary/' said George, ‘‘ it is no longer possible to leave 
you in this house. Your uncle has deliberately set himself 
to rob you. Come with me, dear; my mother will take 
care of you till we are married. '' Mary hesitated. “Go, 
Mary, put on your hat, and come with me. As for you, 
Daniel Leighan " — he waited till Mary had left the room — 
“ we leave you alone. Nothing worse can happen to you. 
When you have no longer Mary to provide, beforehand, all 
your wants— when you are alone all the day and all the 
evening, you will remember what you have thrown away. 
Oh! you are seventy years of age, and you are rich already, 
and you rob your sister’s daughter in order, for a year or 
two, to call yourself richer still!" 

The old man crouched among his pillows and made no 
answer. Mary was leaving him. But if she stayed he must 
give his consent and then he would lose that land. So he 
made no answer. 

Ten minutes later, Mary returned, carrying a small bag 
in her hand. 

“ I have come to say good-bye, uncle." Her eyes were 
full of tears. “ I knew that I must choose between George 
and you. I knew that you would refuse because George 
could save his land if he had my money, and I knew that 
your heart was set upon getting his land. But I did not 
know — oh! I could not guess — that you had planned this 
wicked thing to get my fortune as well as George’s land. 
Everything that I have is yours; but I suppose you will let 
me have my clothes as wages for six years’ work? Come, 
George." 

“ You will go — and leave me — all alone, Mary?" 

“ / am here still, uncle," said David. “ I will come 
and stay here — I will be with you all day long and every 
evening. Not alone; you still have me. We shall have a 
roaring time now that Mary is gone. We will bargain all 
day long. " 

The old man looked up, and saw his enemy before him 
with exulting eyes, and the room empty, save for these two; 
and he shrieked aloud with terror. David with him always! 

“ Mary!" he cried, while yet her soft footsteps, gone 
forever, echoed still about the quiet house. “ Mary!" 
But it was too late. “ Come back, Mary! Don’t leave me 
— don’t leave me — and you shall marry whom you please! 
Mary! Mary! I give you my consent! Mary, come back!" 


156 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


She was gone; and there was no answer. Then he 
turned his face into the pillows and moaned and wept. 
Even David had not the heart to mock him in this first 
moment of his self-reproach and dark foreboding of terror 
and trouble to come. 


CHAPTEK XX. 


THE THIRD DREAM. 


The wedding-bells rang out as merrily for Mary as if 
she was giving her hand to an earl instead of a ruined farm- 
er; as joyfully as if the whole of her life was planned for 
ease and laziness instead of hard work; as happily as if 
Fortune had poured into her lap all that the earth can give 
or the heart can desire. The bells rang out over the whole 
great parish, from Foxworthy to Hey Tor — from Eiddy 
Kock to Ham.il Down. They were echoed along the black 
precipice of L'ustleigh Oleeve and were lost in th^e woods of 
Latchell. They could be heard among the gray stones of 
Grimspound and on the open barrow of King Tor. They 
drowned the roaring of Becky Fall, though the stream was 
full. They rolled like mimic thunder from side to side of 
Becky Coombe. They beat into the ears of the lonely old 
man who sat in his parlor at Gratnor, his papers before 
him, trying to persuade himself that he was happy at last, 
for he had what the Psalmist prayed for — who can have 
more? — his hearths desire. He had longed ardently for the 
lands of Sidcote; he had longed in vain, until a fall in land 
made that become possible which before was impossible. 
He had that land now within his grasp: the place in a few 
weeks or months would be his; and not only that, but five- 
sixths of Mary’s fortune as well. He ought to have been a 



)j man. 


Naturally he was by this time deaf to the voice of Con- 
science, which had now been silent for many years. But 
when Conscience ceases to upbraid, she stabs, wounds, flogs, 
and chastises with any weapon which comes handy. And 
to-day she turned the ringing of the wedding-bells into a 
flail with which she belabored the soul of Daniel Leighan, 
so that he could find no rest or peace while they lasted, or 
after. He had robbed the girl who had served him faith- 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


157 

fully and affectionately— his sister's child— of her portion. 
He had taken her husband's lands; he was driving her 
away to a far country, and he would be left alone. He had 
the desire of his heart, but he would be left alone. This 
was almost as much as if Alexander Selkirk had been in- 
formed by ^ pigeon-post that he was raised to the Peerage 
under the title of the Right Honorable the Viscount Juan 
Fernandez, and that he was condemned to remain for life 
upon this desert island, there to enjoy alone liis title and 
his coronet. 

Mary had left him for three weeks only: already he had 
found the difference between hired service and the service 
of love. It is a difference which shows itself in a thousand 
little things, but they all mean one thing — that the former 
at best, does what it is paid to do, while the latter does all 
that it can think of to please, to comfort, and to alleviate. 
Every day, and all day long, he had turned to Mary for 
everything, and never found her wanting. Now nothing 
was right — not even the position of his chair and table, or 
the arrangement of his cushions, or the comfort of his 
meals; and nothing would ever be right again. Perhaps it 
would have been better if he had given his consent, and 
suffered George to redeem his land, and so kept Mary. 

“Uncle" — it was David who came in slowly, and sat 
down with deliberation — “ the wedding is over. I have just 
come from the church. There was a rare show of people 
— most as many as on a Sunday morning. " 

“ Are they married?" 

“ Yes; they are married. I wouldn't make quite sure 
till I saw it with my own eyes. Married without your con- 
sent, aren't they?" 

“ Certainly. They have married without my consent." 

“Then, Uncle Daniel, since they are married without your 
consent. I'll trouble you for six thousand pounds — my aunt's 
legacy of six thousand pounds — with compound interest for 
six years at five per cent. It amounts to £7,657 13s. 9d. 
I have been to a lawyer at Newton-Abbot and he calculated 
it for me. You lent me, two days ago, a thousand pounds, 
which I take on account of the legacy, because you knew 
then that the bans were up and the wedding fixed. The 
balance you will pay over at . once. Otherwise my lawyer 
will bring an action against you. Halloo! uncle, what's 
the matter?" 


158 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


You took a thousand down, David, in full discharge. 
It was an arrangement. I owe you nothing. 

Uncle, you are a man of business, I believe. What 
arrangement do you mean?’ ’ 

‘‘ You told George, in this room, that there was such an 
arrangement. You set him against me with telling him 
that, David.” 

“ Where is the arrangement? Where are your papers?” 

David I David!” He fell back in his chair. He had 
fainted. 

David went to the sideboard and got the brandy. When 
his uncle recovered he gave him a few drops. 

“ You are simpler than I thought, uncle,” he said. 
“ Did you really believe that I was going to give up this 
fortune, and to you — to you, of all men in the world — when 
I knew all along that they would marry without your con- 
sent?” 

“ David, you are a devil!” 

I am what you made me. As for the devil, he has 
more to do with you than with me, I take it. ” 

“David! David!” he moaned, and wrung his hands, 
“ tell me you are joking.” 

“ Not I! See now, uncle; I am going away. I shall 
sell you the rest of your coupons, and I shall go away; but 
before I go I will have that money out of you, to the last 
farthing. It is not for myself, though; it is for Mary. 
You thought to cheat her out of her fortune, and to keep it 
to yourself; well, you are wrong. You shall pay far more 
to me than you would have paid to her, and she shall have 
it all.” 

“ You are killing me — oh! villain! viljain!” 

“ The villain is the man who lays his plans to rob and 
plunder the helpless.” 

“ Kill me at once!” said the old man; “ kill me, and 
have done with me!” 

“ Kill you? Not I; killing would be foolish with such a 
chance as I’ve got now for revenge ! As for villain — who 
robbed me of my land? You! When I went away, who 
’ refused me the small sum I wanted to start me in Canada? 
You! W^hen I came home, who offered me the wages of 
a laborer? You! Villain? You dare to call any man a 
villain!” David bent over the old man’s chair with flam • 


TO CALL HER MINE. 159 

ing eyes and purple cheeks, his hands held back lest he 
should be tempted to kill him. There was the same fury 
in his look as when, six years before, he stood before him 
with upraised cudgel on the moor. If the baron had seen 
David at that moment he would have ceased to ask how so 
slow a creature could have been spurred into the blind rage 
of murder. “ You dare to call any man a villain? As 
you drove me away — your nephew — so you have driven 
your niece away. As you took my land from me, so you 
have taken George^s land from him. Villain! Well, I 
am a villain. I have lived with rogues and thieves and 
savages till I am no longer fit company for a decent man 
like George, or for an honest man like Harry the black- 
smith. But I will go away as soon as I have got the 
last farthing that can be got out of you: I shall go away, 
I donT know where — and spend it, I donT know how. As 
for killing you, man, I"ve had the heart to do it a dozen 
times since I came home. Every day when I walk among 
my fields I could kill you. But Tve had enough of mur- 
der. Not twice — not twice His eyes were wild and his 
face distorted with ungoverned rage. But still he kept his 
hands back, as if he dared not suffer them to approach his 
uncle. And when he had said all he had to say — ^for this 
was not all, only the rest was incoherent with splutterings 
and oaths — he rushed from the room, as if he could not 
bear even to be in his uncle^s company. 

And then the old man was left alone again. The wed- 
ding-bells were silent, and conscience left him alone to his 
own reflections. I do not think that he acknowledged even 
to himself that he was rightly punished for a long life of 
avarice and greed. Whatever happened, he might bemoan 
his sad fate, but he would not acknowledge that it was the 
natural consequence of his iniquities. So, in the good old 
days, when the retired admiral sat in his room, his foot 
wrapped in flannel, with a red-hot needle stuck into his 
great toe and refusing to come out, his jolly old nose 
swelled as big as a bottle, and beautifully painted with red 
blossoms, he never said to himself, “ Admiral, this red-hot 
needle, this gout, this swelled nose, all these aches and 
pains and tortures and inconveniences, which will shortly 
put an end to you, are the result of the hogsheads^ barrels, 
puncheons, and tuns of rum, brandy, and port which you 
have imbibed in the course of your earthly pilgrimage. 


160 


TO CALL HER MIKE. 


ISTot at all; he only cursed the gout, and lamented his own 
sad fate. 

AVhen the new housekeeper brought in the dinner he did 
not dare, as he would have done in Mary's time, to lay upon 
her the burden of his own misery and bitterness. She was 
a fine large woman, who knew what was due to herself, and 
Mr. Leighan had to treat her with respect. It is • a truly 
dreadful thing not to hav^ a single soul upon whom you 
may discharge your ill-temper, vent your spleen, and make 
a sharer in your own miseries. Never again would this 
poor old man, now tried beyond his powers, be able to com- 
mand a sympathetic listener; never again would any one 
pretend to care whether he was in a good temper or not. 

“ Now, sir," said the housekeeper, ‘‘^sit up and eat your 
dinner. " It is thus that they address the paupers. Mary, 
he remembered daily, had been wont to carve for him, to 
ask him what he would take, and where he liked it cut. 
Now he was told to sit up and eat his dinner. He noticed 
these little things more than usual, because when a man 
has received a heavy blow his mind, for some mysterious 
reason, begins to notice the smallest trifles. I suppose it is 
because he loses all sense of proportion as regards other 
things. Once I read how a murderer was arrested in some 
lodging where he had taken refuge. On his way out of the 
house with the officer who had him in charge, he stopped to 
call his attention to a curious shell upon the mantel-shelf. 
In the same way Mr. Leighan in his trouble of mind noticed 
the serving of his dinner. 

He obeyed, however, and eat his dinner, which was half 
cold. Then he mixed himself a much stronger glass of 
brandy and water than usual, because he was so full of 
trouble, and filled his pipe. And presently, partly because 
his mind was so troubled, partly from habit, and partly by 
reason of the strong brandy and water, he fell asleep as 
usual. 

There was no wedding-breakfast at Sidcote, or any fes- 
tivities at all — not even a wedding-cake. George drove his 
bride and his mother home after the service, and presently 
they had dinner together, and George kissed his wife, and 
his mother cried, so that there was little outward show of 
rejoicing. Yet they all three rejoiced in their hearts, and 
felt stronger and more hopeful, just because they could 
now stand together. 


TO CALL HEK IIIITE. 


161 


In the afternoon Mar}^ asked George to go out with her. 

‘‘ I must go and see my uncle/ ^ she said. “ I can not 
bear to think of him alone. Let us ask him to keep his 
money, but to let us part friends. 

They walked hand in hand across the stubble fields, and 
through the lanes, where the blackberry leaves were putting 
on their autumn tints of red and gold, and the berries of 
the hedge were all ripe and red — the purple honeysuckle, 
the pink yewberry, the blackberry, rowan, hip and haw — to 
Gratnor. 

“ Strange, George, that we shall go away, and never see 
the dear old place again said Mary, with a sigh. ‘‘ Let 
us go as soon as we can, so as to leave it before the trees 
are stripped, and while the sun still lies warm upon the 
hills. 

In the parlor Mr. Leighan was still sleeping, though it 
was past his waking time. Mary touched George by the 
hand, and they sat down behind him in the window and 
waited. 

They waited for a quarter of an hour. 

Then they heard a step outside. 

‘‘ It is David, George whispered. “ He will rouse his 
uncle. Is he come already to ask for his fortune, I won- 
der?^^ ' 

Just then Mr. Leighan awoke, perhaps disturbed by 
David’s heavy step, and he awoke just as he had done twice 
before — namely, suddenly and with a startled shriek of ter- 
ror. Just as he had done twice before he sat up in his 
chair, with horror and fright in his eyes, glaring wildly 
about the room. 

Mary, accustomed to witness this nightmare, looked to 
see the terror change into bewilderment. 

But it did not. 

For awhile his mind was full of his dream; while he yet 
remembered the place, the time, and the man, and before 
the vision had time to fade and disappear, the very man 
himself of whom* he bad dreamed stood before him at the 
open door. Then he no longer forgot; his dream became a 
memory: he was riding across Hey tree Down in the even- 
ing; and he was met by his nephew with a cudgel, and the 
nephew cried out, “ Who robbed me of my land?” and 
struck him across the temples so that he fell. 


163 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


^‘Murderer! Eobber!^^ be cried. ‘‘Help! help! 1 am 
murdered and robbed !^^ 

And then, lo! a miracle. For the paralytic, who had had 
no power in his legs for six long years, sprung to his feet 
and stood with outstretched arms, crying for help to seize 
the murderer. And David stood before him with such a 
look of hatred and revenge as he wore on that night, and 
in his trembling right hand the cudgel ready to uplift and 
to strike. 

It was over in a moment, for the old man fell helpless 
and senseless upon the floor, though David did not strike. 
The skull-cap was knocked off by the fall, and exposed the 
angry red scar of the old wound. He lay upon his back, 
his arms extended in the fashion of a cross, as he had fallen 
upon Hey tree Down; and as he lay there, so he lay here — 
with parted lips, streaming hair, and eyes wide open, which 
saw nothing though they gazed reproachfully upon his 
murderer. Then for a space no one spoke; but David bent 
over his uncle, breathing hard, and George and Mary looked 
on wondering and awe-stricken. 

“ A second time, David 

David started, and turned. It was the hand of his Ger- 
man protector, Baron Sergius von Holsten, and the tall flg- 
ure of the baron stood in the door, accompanied by myself. 
But on this occasion I counted for nothing. 

“ A second time, David?^^ 

David gasped, but made no reply. 

“ You came home, David,^^ said the baron, “ to give 
yourself in charge for murdering and robbing your uncle. 
You struck him over the head with your cudgel, so that he 
fell dead at your feet. You robbed him. of a box of papers 
and a bag of money. The thought of the crime gave you 
no rest by day, and at night the ghost of your uncle came 
to your bedside and ordered you to go home and give your- 
self up. You came home. Your uncle was not dead. 
Have you confessed the crime?^^ 

David made no reply. 

“ Have you restored the papers?^' 

Again he made no reply. 

“ This is your uncle: he looks as if you had killed him a 
second time. Madame — he addressed Mary— “ I am 


TO CALL HER MINE. 163 

sorry to speak of such things in the presence of a lady, but 
I have in my pocket the confession of David Leighan. 

‘‘He was not killed, after all,^^ said David. “What 
matters the confession?” 

“ But he was robbed. Where are the papers?” 

“ Here they are— all that are left.” I observed that he 
had a big book of some kind under his- arm; he laid this 
on the table. “ There are his papers. How what^s the 
odds of a confession or two?” 

“ Is this man^s presence desired by his uncle?” the 
baron asked« 

“ Ho!” said Mary; “ he comes every morning and drives 
him nearly mad. He had some power over him — I know 
not what. He has made my nucleus life miserable for three 
months.” 

“ My duty seems plain, said the baron. “ I shall go to 
the nearest police-station and deposit this confession. They 
will, I suppose, arrest you, David. You can not, I fear, be 
hanged, but you will be shut up in prison for a very long 
time. The wise man, David, flies from dangers against 
which he can no longer struggle. The door is open.” He 
stood aside. “ Fly, David! let fear add wings. The police 
will be upon you this night if you are still in this village! 
Fly, David! even if it is once more to face the ghost of your, 
murdered uncle! Better a hundred ghosts than ten years 
of penal servitude. Fly, David! — fly!” 

There remained little more to be told. 

David has not since been heard of; and the question 
whether Mary’s fortune was forfeited by her marriage has 
not been raised Hor can it be raised now. For Mr. 
Leighan remained senseless for three days — the same period 
as that which followed the assault upon him. And when 
he came to his right mind, behold! it was another mind. 
He thinks that the whole parish of Challacombe belongs to 
him — all the farms and cottages, and even the church and 
the rectory. He is perfectly happy in this belief, and is 
constantly planning improvements and good works of all 
kinds. He exists only to do good. He lives with George 
and Mary, and enjoys not only good health, but also an ex- 
cellent temper. He always has a bag of money on the 
table, the handling and music of which give him the most 


164 


TO CALL HER MINE. 


exquisite pleasure; and in the drawing up of imaginary 
mortgages, signing vast checks, and watching his imaginary 
property grow more and more, he passes a happy and a 
contented old age. His affairs are managed by George, 
and Mary is his heiress. So that for the present genera- 
tion, at least, there will be no more talk of going to Tas- 
mania. 


THE END. 


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68 Jess. By H. Rider Haggard. . . . 25 
59 Dora Thorne. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme 25 

61 Hilaiy’s Folly. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme 25 

62 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 25 

63 Between Two Sins. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 25 

64 A Bachelor’s Blunder. By W. 

E. Norris 25 

65 Nellie’s Jlemories. Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey 25 

66 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme 25 

68 The Merry Men. By Robert 

Louis Stevenson 25 

\ 72 Sunshine and Roses. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme 25 

74 Les Mis6rables. By Victor 

Hugo. Part 1 25 

74 Les Mis6rables. By Victor 

Hugo. Part II 25 

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75 One Thing Needful. By Miss M. 

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Manville Fenn ; 25 

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88 Springhaven. By R. D. Black- 

more 25 

89 A Vagrant Wife. By Florence 

Awls 

90 struck Down. By iiawie.y Smart 25 

91 At the World’s Mercy. By Flor- 

ence Warden 25 

92 ClaribePs Love Story ; or, Love’s 

Hidden Depths. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme 25 

93 The Shadow of a Sin. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme 25 

97 Little Tu’penny. By S. Baring- 

Gould 25 

99 From Gloom to Sunlight. By 
Charlotte ]\I. Braeme 25 

100 Redeemed by Love. By Cliar- 

lotte M. Braeme 25 

101 A AVoman’s W^ar. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 25 

102 ’Twixt Smile and Tear. Bj’^ 

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^ 103 Lady Diana’s Pride. By Char- 
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104 Sweet Cymbeline. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 25 

105 The Belle of Lynn. B}' Char- 

lotte M. Braeme 25 

106 Dawn. By II. Rider Haggard. . 25 

107 The Tinted Venus. B 5 *F.Anstey 25 

108 Addie’s Husband; or. Through 

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109 TJie Rabbi’s Spell. By Stuart 

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‘113 A Haunted Life. By Charlotte 

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more. Second half 20 

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mance. By William Black . . 10 

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Thorne ” 20 

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Thorne ” . 20 

Tale of Two Cities, A. By- 

Charles Dickens 20 

Madcap Violet. By AVm. Black 20 
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lOG iJleak House. By Charles Dick- 
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107 Dombey aud Son. By Charles 

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107 Dombey aud Son. By Charles 

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132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

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134 Witching Hour, The, and Other 

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135 Great Heiress, A : A Fortune in 

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140 Glorious Fortune, A. By Wal- 

ter Besant 10 

141 She Loved Him I By Annie 

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143 One False, Both Fair. By John 

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144 Promises of Marriage. B 3 ’ Emile 

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145 “ Storm-Beaten:” God and The 

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146 Love Finds the Way", and Other 

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ope 20 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 

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149 Captain’s Daughter, The. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

150 For Himself Alone. By" T. W. 

Speight 10 

151 Ducie Diamonds, The. By C. 

Blatherwick 10 

152 Uncommercial Traveler, The. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

153 Golden Calf, The. By Miss M. 


154 Annan Waterr By Robert Buch- 

anan 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas 20 

156 “ For a Dream’s Sake.” By Mi*s. 

Herbert Martin 20 

157 Milly’s Hero. By F. W. Robinson 20 

158 Starling, The. By Norman 

Macleod. D.D 10 

159 Captain Norton’s Diary", and 

A Moment of Madness. By" 
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160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

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161 Lady of Lyons, The. Founded 

on the Play of that title by 
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162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bulwer 

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rell 20 

164 Leila ; or. The Siege of Grenada. 

By Ilulwer Lytton 10 

165 History of Henry" Esmond, The. 

By William M. Thackeray". . . 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. 

By “The Duchess” 10 

167 Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

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168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

169 Haunted Man, The. By Charles 

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170 A Great Treason. By Mary 

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170 A Great Treason, By Mary 

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171 Fortune’s Wheel. By “The 

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172 “ Golden Girls. ” By Alan Muir 20 

173 Foreigners, The. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

174 Under a Ban, By Mrs. Lodge. 20 

175 Love’s Random Shot. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

176 An April Day. By Philippa Prit- 

tie Jephson 10 

177 Salem Chapel. By Mr.s. Oliphant 20 

178 More Leaves from the Jouinial 

of a Life in the Highlands. 

By Queen Victoria 10 

179 Ljttle Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

180 Round the Galley Fire. By W*. 

Clark Russell 10 

181 New Abelard, The. By Robert 

Buchanan 10 

182 Millionaire, The 20 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 

ries. By Florence Marr.yat.. 10 

184 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Jjorris 20 

185 Dita. By Lady Blargaret Ma- 

jendie 10 

186 Canon’s Ward, The. By James 

Payn 20 

187 Midnight Sun, The. Bj' Fredrika 

Bremer 10 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. By Mrs. Alex- 


••••••••••••••• ••••••« « AV/ 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 

Charlotte SI, Braeme, author 
ot “Dora Thorne” 10 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever 20 

192 At the World’s Slercy. By F. 

Warden 10 

193 Rosary Folk, The. By G, Slan- 

ville Fenn 10 

194 “So Near, and Yet So Far!” 

By Alison 10 

195 “ Way of the World, The.” By 

David Christie Slui’ray 20 

196 Hidden Perils. Slary Cecil Hay 20 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Slary 

Cecil Hay 20 

198 Husband’s Story, A 10 

199 Fisher Village, The. By Anne 

Beale 10 

200 An Old Sian’s Love. By Anthony 

Trollope 10 

201 Monastery, The. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

202 Abbot, The. Sequel to “ The 

Slonastery.” By Sir Walter 
Scott 20 

203 John Bull and His Island. By 

SlaxO’Rell 10 

204 Vixen. B 3 ' Sliss SI. E. Braddon 20 

205 Minister’s Wife, The. By Sirs. 

Oliphant 30 


•06 Picture, The, and Jack of All 
Trades. By Charles Reade... 10 


Pretty Sliss Neville. By B. SI. 

Crdker T 20 

Ghost of Charlotte Cray, The, 
and Other Stories. By Flor- 


cuutJ 

John Holdsworth, Chief Slate. 

By W. Clark Russell 10 

Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
rent Events. By Chas. Reade 10 
Octoroon, The. By Sliss SI. E. 

Braddon 10 

Charles O’Mallgy, the Irish 
Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 

First half 20 

Charles 0’SIalle}% the Irish 
Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 

Second half 20 

Terrible Temptation, A. B.v 

Chas. Reade 20 

Put Yourself in His Place. Bj" 

Charles Reade 20 

Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 20 

Foul Play, By Charles Reade. 20 
Sian She Cared For, The. By 

F. W. Robinson 20 

Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James 20 
Lady Clare ; or. The Slaster of 
the Forges. From the French 

of Georges Ohuet 10 

Which Loved Him Best? By 
Charlotte SI. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye. By Helen 

*R TVTflt'liPT'Q 

Sun-SIaid, The.'‘By Miss Grant 20 
Sailor’s Sweetheart, A, By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

Arundel Slotto, The. By Slary 

Cecil Hay. 20 

Giant’s Robe, The. By F. Anstey 20 

Friendship, By “Ouida” 20 

Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton . 20 
Princess Napraxine. “Ouida” 20 
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Sirs. Alexander 10 

Dorothy Forster. By Walter 

Besant 20 

Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 

By Charles Reade 20 

Love and Sloney; or, A Peril- 
ous Secret. By Chas. Reade. 10 
“ I Say No or. The Love-Let- 
ter Answered. B 3 ' Wilkie Col- 
lins 20 

Barbara; or, Splendid SIiserJ^ 

By Sliss SI. E. Braddon 20 

“ It is Never Too Late to Slend. ’ ’ 

By Charles Reade 20 

Which Shall It Be? By Sirs. 

Alexander 20 

Repented at Leisure. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

Pascarel, By “ Ouida ” 20 

Signa. By “Ouida” ^ 

Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 
Baby’s Grandmother, The, By 
L. B. Walford 10 


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THE (SEAHIDE Jj7I5KAKY — Pocket Edition. 


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243 Two Orphans, The. By D’En- 

nery 

243 Tom Burke of “Oxirs.” By 
Charles Lever. First half... 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” By 

Cliarles Lever. Second half. 

244 Great Mistake, A. By the author 

of “ Cherry ” 

2B> Miss Tommy. By Miss Mulock 
24G Fatal Dower, A.. By the Author 
of “His Wedded Wife” .... 
217 Armourer’s Prentices, The. By 

Charlotte M. Yonjre 

348 House on the Marsh, The. By 
F. Warden 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 

250 Sunshine and Roses ; or, Diana’s 

Discipline. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 

251 Daughter of the Stars, The, and 

Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “ Called 
Back ” 

252 Sinless Secret, A. By “ Rita ” 

253 Amazon, The. By Carl Vosmaer 

254 Wife’s Secret, The, and Fair but 

False. Charlotte M. Brae lie, 
author of “ Dora Thoriie ”... 

255 Mystery, The. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 

256 Mr. Smith ; A Part of His Life. 

ByL. B. Walford 

257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Sei’- 

geant. 

2.5S Cousins. ByL. B. Walford 

259 Bride of Monte-Cristo, The. A 

Sequel to “ The Count of 
Monte-Cristo.” By Alexan- 
der Dumas 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 

201 Fair Maid, A. By F. W. Robin- 
son 

262 Count of IMonte-Cristo, The. 
B}^ Alexander Dumas. Part I 

262 Count of Monte-Cristo. The. 

By Alexander Dumas. Part II 

263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 

264 Pi6douche, a French Detective. 

By Fortune Du Boisgobey... 

265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 

Affairs and Other Advent- 
ures. By William Black.... 
*66 Water-Babies, Tlie. A Fairy 
Tale for a I.and-Baby. By the 
Rev. Charles Kingsley 

267 Laurel Vane; or. The Girls’ 

Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or. The Mi- 

ser’s Treasure. By Mrs. Alex. 
McVeigh Miller 

269 Lancaster s Choice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 

870 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part 1 


270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 

gene Sue. Part II 20 

271 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 

gene Sue. Parti 20 

271 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 

gene Sue. Part II .’ 20 

272 Little Savage, The. By Captain 

Marryat 10 

273 Love and Mirage; or. The Wait- 

ing on an Island. By M. 
Betham -Ed wards 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 

Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 
and Letters 10 

275 Three Brides, The. By Char- 

lotte M. Yonge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. 

By Florence Marryat (Mrs. 
Francis Lean) 10 


277 Surgeon’s Daughters, The, by 

Mrs. Henry Wood. A Man of 
ilis Word, by W. E. Norris... 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 

279 Little Goldie ; A Story of Wom- 

an’s Love. B}^ IMrs. Sumner 


Hayden 20 

280 Omnia Vfinitas. A Tale of So- 

ciety. By BIrs. Forrester 10 

281 Squire’s Legacy, The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 

Donald 20 

283 Sin of a Lifetime, The. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

284 Doris. By “ The Duchess ”... . 10 

285 Gambler’s Wife, The 20 

286 Deldee; or. The Iron Hand. By 

F. W’arden 20 

287 At War With Herself. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme,’ author of 

“Dora Thorne” 1# 

923 At War With Herself. By Char- 
lotte 51. Itraeme. (Large type 
edition) 20 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or 

From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

955 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 
From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte 51. Braeme. (Large 
type edition) 20 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 

Tnie liiglit. By a “Brutal 
Saxon ” 10 

290 Nora’s Love Test. By 5Iary 

Cecil Hay 20 

291 Love’s Warfare. By Charlotte 

51. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

292 Golden Heart, A. By Charlotte 

51. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 10 

293 Shadow of a Sin, The. By Char- 

lotte 51. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 


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294 Hilda; or, The False Vow. By 

Charjotte M. Braeine, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 

^ 928 Hilda; or, The l<’alse Ybw. By 
Charlotte M. Braeine. (Large 
type edition) 

295 Woman’s War, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeine, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 

952 Woman’s War, A. By ( 'harlotte 

]\I. Braeine. (Large type edi- 
I tion) 

296 Rose ifr Thorns, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 

297 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 

riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 

953 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 

riage Vow. By Charlotte 51. 
Braeme. (Large type edition) 

298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Marga- 

ret Veley 

299 Fatal Lilies, The. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 

■ 300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 
Love. By Cliarlotte M. 
Braeme. author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway 

302 Blatchford Bequest, The. By 

Hugh Conway, author of 
“ Called Back ” 

303 Ingledew House. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 

304 In Cu]>id’s Net. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 

305 Dead Heart, A. By Charlotte 

]\I. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 

306 Golden Dawn, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 

307 Two Kisses. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 

308 Beyond Pardon 

309 Pathfinder, The. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 

- 310 Prairie, The. B^’’ J. Fenimore 
Cooper 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. 

By R. H. Dana, Jr 

312 Week in Killarnej', A. By “ The 

Duclicss • 

313 Lover’s Creed, The. By Mrs. 

Cashel-Hoey , 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill . . . 

315 Mistletoe Bough, Tlie. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 


316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 

Rodney’s Secret. B.v Mrs. 
Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

317 By- Mead and Stream. By Chas. 

J Giblion 20 

318 Pioneers, The; or. The Sources 

of the Su.squehauna. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

319 Face to Face: A Fact in Seven 

Fables. By R. E. Francillon. 10 

320 Bit of Human Nature, A. Bj^ 

David Christie Murray 10 

321 Prodigals, The: And Their In- 

heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant. 10 

322 Woman’s Love-Storj^ A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

323 Willful Maid, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 

324 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

^25 Portent, The. By George Mac- 
donald 10 

326 Phantasies. A Faeide Romance 

for Men and Women. By 
Geoi’ge Macdonald... 10 

327 Pkaymond’s Atonement. (From 

the German of E. Werner.) 

Bj' Christina Tyrrell 20 

328 Bahiole, the Pretty IMilliner. 

(Translated from Uie lYench 
of Fortune Du Boisgobey.) 
First half 20 

328 Bahiole, the Pretty Milliner. 

(Translated from the Fi-ench 
of Fortune Du Boisgobey.) 
Second lialf 20 

329 Polish Jew, The. (’I'ranslated 

from the French liy Cai'oline 
A. Merighi.) By Erckmann- 
Chatrian 10 

330 May Blossom : or. Between Two 

Loves. B}' Margaret Lee 20 

331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 20 

332 Judith Wjmne. By author of 

“ Lady Lovelace ” 20 

333 Frank Fairlegh ; or. Scenes 

From the Life of a Private 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 20 

334 Marriage of Convenience, A. 

By Harriett .lay 10 

335 White Witch, The. A Novel.. . 20 

336 Philistia. By Cecil Power 29 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 

Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
including some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. B}*^ 
Mrs. Oliphant 20 

338 Family Difficulty, The. By Sa- 

rah Doudney 10 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By l\Irs. Alexander 10 

340 Under Which King? By Comp- 

ton Reade 20 

341 Madolin Rivers; or. The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

By Laura Jean Libbey 20 

342 Baby, The. By “ The Duchess ” 10 


20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

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10 

20 

10 

10 

10 

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10 

10 

10 

10 

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20 

20 

20 

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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition, 


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343 Talk of the Town, The. By 

James PayJi 20 

344 “Wearinf!: of the Green, The.” 

By Basi 1 20 

345 Madam. By Mrs Oliphant 20 

34G Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

Muir 10 

347 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 
Vince 20 


348 From Post to Finish. A Racing. 


Romance. By Hawley Smart 20 
849 Two Admirals, The. A Tale of 
the Sea. By J. Feuimoi’e 
Cooper 20 

350 Diana of the Crossways. By 

George Meredith 10 

351 House on tl^p Moor, The. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

352 At Any Cost. By Edw. Garrett 10 

353 Black Dwarf, The. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

354 Lottery of Life, The. A Story 

of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. By John Brougham... 20 

355 That Terrible Man. By W. E. 

Norris 10 

356 Good Hater, A. By Frederick 

Boyle 20 

357 John. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

358 Within the Clasp. By J. Ber- 

wick Harwood 20 

• 359 Water-Witch, The. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

360 Rones of Sand. By R. E. Francil- 

lon 20 

361 Red Rover, The. A Tale of the 

Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

362 Bride of Lammermoor, The. 

By Sir Walter Scott. . . 20 

363 Surgeon’s Daughter, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 10 

364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 10 

365 George Christy; or. The Fort- 

unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 
Pastor 20 

366 JMysterious Hunter, The; or. 

The Man of Death. By Capt. 

L. C. Carleton 20 

,367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 20 

368 Southern Star, The : or. The Dia- 

mond Laud. By Jules Verne 20 

369 MissBretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 

phry Ward 10 

370 Lucy Crofton. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

872 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 
thor of ” His Wedded Wife ”. 10 
373 Wing-and-Wing. By J. Feni- 

inore Cooper 20 


874 Dead Man’s Secret. Tlie ; or. The 
Adventures of a Medical Stu- 
dent. By Di’. Jupiter Paeon. . 20 
375 Ride to Kiiiva, A. By Cap'tain 
Fred Burnaby, of the Royal 
Horse Guards 20 


376 Crime of Christmas Day, Tlie. 

By the author of “ My Ducats 
and My Daughter ” 10 

377 Jlagdalen Hepburn : A Story of 

the Scottish Reformation. By 
Mrs. Oliphant 20 

378 Homeward BoiMid; or. The 

Chase. By J. F. Cooper 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound.”) ByJ. 

•a Fenimore Cooper.... 20 

380 Wyandotte; or, The Hutted 

Knoll. ByJ. Fenimore Cooper 20 

381 Red Cardinal, The. By f'rances 

Elliot 10 

382 Three Sisters; or, Sketches of 

a Highly Original Family. 

By Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling. . . 10 

383 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 

ilton Aid6 10 

384 On Horseback Tlirough Asia 

Minor. By Captain Fred Bur- 
naby. . . 20 

385 Headsman, The; or. The Ab- 

baye des Vignerons. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

386 Led Astray; or, “La Petite 

Comtesse.” Octave Feuillet. 10 

387 Secret of the Cliffs, The. By 

Charlotte French 20 

388 Addie’s Husband ; or. Through 

Clouds to Sunshine. By the 
author of “ Love or Tjands?”. 10 

389 Ichabod. A Portrait. By Bertha 


4 Thomas 10 

390 Mildred Trevanion. By “ The 

Vi Duchess ” 10 

391 Heart of Mid-Lothian, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

393 Pirate, The. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

394 Bravo, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

395 Archipelago on Fire, The. By 

Jules Verne 10 

396 Robert Ord's Atonement. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln ; or, The Leaguer 

of Boston. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. 

By Robert Buchanan 10 

399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. . 20 

400 Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish, The. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

402 Lilliesleivf : or, Pivssages in the 


Life of Mrs. Dlargaret Mait- 
land of Silnnyside. By Mrs. 
Oliphant 20 

403 An English Squire. By C. R. 

Coleridge 20 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

406 Merchant’s Clerk, The. By Sam- 

uel Warren 10 


8 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— PockiuT Edition. 


407 Tylney Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 

408 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

409 Roy’s Wife. By G. J. Whyte- 

Melville 20 

410 Old Lady Mary. By Mrs. Oli- 

pl)ant 10 

411 Bitter Atonement, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

412 Some One Else. By B. M. Croker 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Fen- 

imore Cooper 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“ Afloat and Ashore.”) By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

415 Ways of the Hour, The. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

416 Jack Tier ; or, The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

417 Fair Maid of Pertli, The; or, 

St. Valentine’s Day. By Sir 
AValter Scott 20 

418 St. Ronan's Well. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

419 Chainbearer, The; or. The Lit- 

tlepage Manuscripts. By J. 
Feuimore Cooper 20 

420 Satanstoe; or, The Littlepage 

Manuscripts. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

421 Redskins, The; or, Indian and 

Injin. Being the conclusion 
of the I.ittlepage ]\lanuscriiJts. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

422 rreeautiou. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

423 Sea Lions, The; or. The Lost 

Sealers. B 3 '^ J. F. Cooper... 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or, Tbe 

Voyage to Catha 3 \ By J. Fen- 
imore Cooper 20 

425 Oak-Openings, The; or. The 

Bee-Hunter. By J. Fenimox’e 
Cooper 20 

426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ask- 

worth Taylor 20 

427 Remarkable History of Sir 

Thomas Upmore, Bart., M.P., 
The. Formerl}'^ known as 
“ Tommy Upmore.” By R. 

D. Blackmore 20 

428 Z6ro: A Story of IMonte-Carlo. 

By Mrs. Ca'mpbell-Praed 10 


429 Boulderstone : or. New Men and 

Old Populations. By W., Sime 10 

430 Bitter Reckoning. A. B.y the au- 

thor of “ By Crooked Paths ” 10 

431 Monikins, The. By J. Feuimore 

Cooper 20 

432 Witch’s Head, The. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

433 My Sister Kate. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

434 Wyllard’s Weird. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

435 Klytia : A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. By George Taylor. .. 20 


Stella. By Fanny Lewald 20 

IJfe and Adventures of Martin 
t3iuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. B 3 ' Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 

Found Out. By Helen B. 

Mathers 10 

Great Expectations. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

Sea Change, A. B 3 ^ Flora L. 

Shaw 20 

Rauthorpe. By George Henry 

Lewes 20 

Bachelor of the Albany’, The. . . 10 
Heart of Jane Warner, The. By 

Florence Manyat 20 

Shadow of a Cdme, The. By^ 

Hall Caine 20 

Dame Durden. By' “Rita”... 20 
American Notes. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

Pictures From Italy, and The 
Mudfog Papers, &c. By Chas. 

Dickens 20 

Peeress and Player. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

Godfrey Helstone. By Georgi- 

ana Sl. Craik 20 

Market Harborough, and Inside 
the Bar. G. J. Whyte-Melville 20 
In the West Countrie. By May 

Crommelin 20 

Lottery Ticket, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey 20 

Mystery of Edwin Drood, The. 

By Ciias. Dickens . ... 20. 

Lazarus in Loudon. By’' F. W. 

Robinson 20 

Sketches by Boz. Illustrative 
of Every-day Life and Every- 
day People. By Charles Dick- 
ens 20 

Russians at the Gates of Herat, 
The. By Charles Marvin. ... 10 
Week of Passion, A; or. The 
Dilemma of Mr. George Bar- 
ton the Younger. By Edward 

Jenkins 20 

Woman's Temptation, A. B. 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 

type edition) 3b 

Woman’s Temptation, A. By 
Charlotte j\I. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Tliorne ” 10 

Under a Shadow. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

His Wedded Wife. By author 

of “ A Fatal Dower ” 20 

Alice’s Adventures in SVonder- 
land. By Lewis Carroll. With 
fort.y - two illustrations by 

John Tenniel 20 

Redgaimtlet. By Sir Walter 
' Scott 20 


436 

437 

437 

^38 

"439 

440 

441 

442 

44:1 

444 

445 

446 

447 

448 

449 

450 

451 

452 

453 

454 

455 

456 

457 

458 

459 

951 

460 

461 

462 

463 


THE SEASIDE LIDRAHY—Pocket Edition. 


464 Newcoines, The. By William 
Makepeace Thackeray. Tart 
1 20 

464 Neweomes, The. By W'illiam 

Makepeace Thackeray. Part 
^ II 20 

465 Earl’s Atouement, The. By 

Charlotte IM. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

466 Between Two Loves. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

467 Struggle for a Ring, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

468 Fortunes, Good and Bad, of a 

Sewing-Girl, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Stanley 10 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret: or, A 

Guiding Star. By Cliarlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

470 Evelyn’s Folly. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

471 Thrown on the World. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

472 Wise Women of Inverness, 

The. By Wm. Black 10 

473 Lost Son, A. By .Mary Linskill. 10 

474 Serapis. By George Ebers 20 

475 iTima Donna’s itusband. The. 20 

By F. Du Boisgobiyy 

476 Between Two Sins; or, IMarried 

in Haste. By Cliailolte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

477 Affinities. A Romance of To- 

day. By Mrs. Cainpbell-Praed 10 

478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 

ter. By Miss M. E. Bi addon. 


Part 1.' 20 

478 Diavola: or. Nobody’s Daugh- 

ter. By Miss IM. E. Braddon. 
Part II 20 

479 LouivSa. By Katharine S. Mac- 

quoid 20 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

481 House That Jack Built, The. 

By Alison 10 

482 Vagrant Wife, A. By F. Warden 20 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me. By 

the author of “A Golden Bar ” 10 

484 Although He Was a Lord, and 


Other Tales. Mrs. Forrester. 10 
48.5 Tinted Vapours. By J. Maclaren 

Cobban 10 

486 Dick’s Sweetheart. By “ The 

Duchess ” 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

488 Josliua Haggard’s Daughter. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

489 Rupert Godwin. By Jliss M. E. 

Bradtlon 20 

490 Second Life, A. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 


491 Society in London. By a For- 


eign Resident 10 

492 Mignon; or. Booties’ Baby. By 

J. S. Winter. Illustrated 10 

493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. By 

s Lucas Malet 20 

494 Maiden All Forlorn, A, and Bar- 

bara. By “ The Duche.ss ”... 10 

495 Mount Royal. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

497 Lady’s Mile, The. By Miss M. 

E.' Braddon 20 

498 Only a Clod. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

499 Cloven Foot, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

500 Adrian Vidal. By W. E. Norris 20 

501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. By F. Mabel 

Robinson 20 

502 Carriston’s Gift. By Hugh 

Conway, author of “Called 
Back ” 10 


503 Tinted Venus, The. By F. Anstey 10 

504 Curly: An Actor’s Story, By 

John Coleman. Illustrated. 10 

505 Society of London, The. By 

Count Paul Vasili 10 

506 Lady Lovelace, By the author 

of “Judith Wynne”. 20 

507 Chronicles of the Canongate, 

and Other Storie.s. By Sir 
Walter Scott 10 

508 Unholy Wish, The. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

509 Nell Haffenden. By Tighe Hop- 

kins 20 

510 Mad Love, A. By the author of 

“ Lover and Lord ” 10 

511 Strange World, A. By Miss M. 

E, Braddon 20 

512 Waters of Hercules, The 20 

513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 

Other Tales. By Mrs. Henry 
Wood ■ 10 

514 Mystery of Jessy Page, The, 

and Other Tales. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

£15 Sir Jasper’s 'I’enant. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

510 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle- 
maine’s Divorce. By Char- 
lotte 31. Hraeine, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

517 Passive Crime, A, and Other 

Stories. Bv “ The Duchess ” 10 

518 Hidden Sin, the. A Novel 20 

519 James Gordon's Wife, A Novel 20 

520 She’s All the WorM to 3Ie. By 

Hall Caine 10 

521 Entangled. By E. Fairfax 

Byrrne 20 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or. The. 

Steel Gauntlets. By F. Du 
Boisgobey 20 

523 Consequences of a Duel, The. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 20 


10 


THE SEASIDE lABKARY— Pocket Edition, 


534 iStratigers and Pilgrims. By 
Miss M. E. Braddon: 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories. 

By Hugh Conway, author of 
“Called Back”.’ 

526 Madame De Presnel. E. 

Frances Poynter 

527 Days of My Life. The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 

528 At 1 1 is Gale.s. By Mrs. Oliphant 
52i) Doctor's Wife, The. B}' Miss M. 

E. Braddon 

5;^0 Pair of Blue Eyes, A. By Thom- 
as Hardy 

531 Prime Minister, The. By An- 
thony Trollope. First Half . . 
531 Prime Minister, The. By An- 
thony Trollope. Sepoud Half 
632 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 
53ti Hazel Kirke. By Marie AValsh 

534 Jack. By Alphonse Daudet — 

535 Henrietta’s Wish: or. Domi- 

neering, By Charlotte M. 
Yonge 

536 Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- 

drew Lang 

537 Piccadilly. Laurence Oliphant 

538 Fair Country Maid, A. By E. 

Fairfax Byrrne 

539 Silvermead. By Jean Middle- 

mas 

540 At a High Price. By E. AVerner 

541 “As it Fell Upon a Day,’’ by 

“The Duchess,’’ and Uncle 
Jack, by Walter Besant 

542 Fenton’s Quest. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 

5-13 Family Affair, A. By Htigh 
Con way, author of “ Called 
Back ’’ 

544 Cut by the County: or, Grace 

Darnel. By Miss M. E. Brad- 
don 

545 Vida’s Story. By author of 

“ Guilty AVithOut Crime ” 

546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime 

547 Coquette’s Conquest, A. By 

Basil 

548 Fatal Marriage, A, and The 

Shadow in the Corner. By 
Miss M. E. Braddon 

549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 

er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
field’s Journey. ByMissM. E. 
Braddon 

550 StnickDown. By Hawley Smart 

551 Barbara Heathcote's Trial. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 

552 Hostages to Fortune. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 

553 Birds of Prey. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (A Se- 

quel to “ Pirds of Pre)'.’’) By 
Miss M. E. Braddon 

555 Cara Roma. By Miss Grant 

556 Prince of Darkness, A. By F. 

Warden 


557 To the Bitter End. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

558 Poverty Corner. By G. Mauville 

Feiin 20 

559 Taken at the Flood. By Miss 

?tl. E. Braddon 20 

■56.') Asphodel. By Miss M. E. Brad- 

(!oi) 20 

501 Just As I Am; or, A Living Lie. 

By Miss U. E Braddon 20 

562 Lewis Arundel; or. The Rail- 
road of Life. By Frank E. 

S medley 20 

.563 Two Sides of the Shield, The. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge...... 20 

.564 At Bay. By Mrs. Alexander. . . 10 

565 No Medium. By Annie Thomas 10 

566 Royal Highlanders, The: or, 

The Black AA’^atch in Egypt. 

By James Grant 20 

567 Dead Men’s Shoes. By Miss M. 

- E. Braddon 20 

568 Perpetual Curate, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

.569 Harry Muir. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

570 John Marchmont’s Legacy. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

571 Paul Carew’s StOJ'y. Bj' Alice 

Comyns Carr 10 

572 Healey. By Jessie Fotheigill. 20 

573 Love’s Harvest. B. L. Farjeon 20 

574 Nabob, The: A Stoiy of Paris- 

ian Life and Manners. By Al- 


phonse Daudet 20 

575 Finger of Fate, The. By Ca])- 

taiu Ma y ne Reid , 20 

576 Her Martyrdom. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ’’ 20 

577 In Peril and Privation. By 

James Paym 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. By^ Jules 

y Verne. (Illustrated.) Part I. 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

A^erne. (Ilhistrated.) Part II 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) Part III 10 

579 Flower of Doom, The, and 

Other Stories. By M. Betham- 
Ed ware Is 10 

580 Red Route. The. By AVilliarn 

Sime 20 

581 Betrothed, The. (I Promessi 

Sposi,) Aless.andro Manzoni. 20 

582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. By 

Mrs. J. H. Needell 20 

583 A'ictory Deane. By Cecil Griffith 20 

584 Mixed Motives 10 

58-5 Drawn Game. A. By Basil 20 

586 “For Percival.’’ By Margaret 

Veley 20 

587 Parson o’ Dumford, The. By 

G. Mauville Fenu 20 

588 Cherry. By the author of “A 

Great Mistake’’ 10 

589 Luck of the Darrells, The. By 

James Pay n 20 

590 Courting of Mary Smith, The. 

By F. AY. Robinson 20 


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THE SEASroE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


11 


591 Queen of Hearts, The. By Wil- 
kie Collins 20 

502 Strange Voyage, A. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

593 Berna Boyle. By Mrs. J. H. 
Riddell 20 


594 Doctor Jacob. By Miss Betham- 

Ed wards 20 

595 North Country Maid, A. By 

Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 20 

590 My Ducats and My Daughter. 

By the author of “ The Crime 

of Christmas Day ” ^ . 20 

697 Haco the Dreamer. By William 

Sime 10 

598 Corinna. By “Rita” 10 

599 Lancelot Ward, M.P. By George 

Temple 10 

GOO Houp-La. By John Strange 

Winter. (Illustrated) 10 

GOl Slings and Arrows, and other 
Stories. By Hugh Conway, 
author of “ Called Back ”... 10 

602 Camiola; AGirnVithaFortune. 

By Justin McCarthy 20 

603 Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant. First 

Half 20 


603 Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- 

ond Half 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 

Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. First 
Half 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 

Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- 
ond Half 20 

605 Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

606 Mrs. Hollyer. By Georgiana M. 

Craik 20 

607 Self-Doomed. By B. L. Farjeon 10 

608 For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carev 20 

609 Dark House. The : A Knot Un- 

raveled. By G. Manville Fenn 10 

610 Storv of Dorothv Grape, The, 

and Other Tales. By Mrs. 
Henry Wood 10 

611 Babylon. By Cecil Power 20 

612 31y Wife's Niece. By the author 

of " Doctor Edith Romney ”. 20 

613 Ghost’s Touch, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

614 No. 99. By Arthur Griffiths... 10 

615 Mary Anerley. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

616 Sacred Nugget, The. By B. L. 

Farjeon 20 

617 Like Dian’.'^ Kiss. By “ Rita ”. 20 

618 Mistletoe Bough. The. Christ- 

mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddou 20 

619 Joy; or. The Light of Cold- 

Home Ford. By May Crom- 
melin 20 

620 Between the Heather and the 

Northern Sea. By M. Linskill 20 

621 Warden, The. By Anthony 

Trollope ••••• 10 

622 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. By 

Anthony Trollope 10, 


623 My Lady’s Money. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

624 Primus in Indis. By M. J. Col- 

quhoun 10 

625 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin. 

By R. D. Blackmore 20 

626 Fair Mystery, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

627 White Heather. By Wm. Black 20 

628 Wedded Hands. By the author 

of “ My Lady’s Folly ” 20 

629 Cripps, the Carrier. By R. D. 

Blackmore 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. First half 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. Second half 20 

631 Christowell. By R. D. Blackmore 20 

632 Clara Vaughan. By R. D. Black- 


more 20 

633 Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. 
Blackmore. 1st half 20 

633 Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 2d half ...20 

634 Unforeseen, The. By Alice 

O’Hanlon 20 

635 Murder or Manslaughter? By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

636 Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Black- 

more. 1st half 20 

636 Alice liOrraine. By R. D. Black- 

more. 2d half 20 

637 What’s His Offence'? By author 

of “ The Two Miss Flemings ” 20 

638 In Quarters with the 25th (The 

Black Horse) Dragoons. By 

J. S. Winter 10 

6;I9 Othmar. By “Ouida” 20 

6-10 Nuttie’s Father. By Charlotte 
M. Yonge 20 

641 Rabbi’s Spell, The. By Stuart 

C. Cumberland 10 

642 Britta. By George Temple 10 

643 Sketch-book of Geoffrey Cray- 

on, Gent, The. By Washing- 
ton Irving 20 

644 Girton Girl, A. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains. By 

Rhoda Broughton 10 

646 Master of the Mine, The. By 

Robert Buchanan 20 

647 Goblin Gold. By May Crom- 

melin 10 

648 Angel of the Bells, The. By F. 

Du Boisgobey - • 20 

649 Cradle and Spade. By William 

Sime 20 

650 Alice: or. The Mysteries. (ASe- 

4 -^ Tlf olf 


Besant 10 

652 Lady With the Rubies, The. By 

E. Marlitt 20 

663 Barren Title, A. T. W. Speight 10 

654 “ Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

By Mrs. Moleswoith. 10 


12 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


655 Open Door, The. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 10 

656 Golden Flood, The. By R. E. 

Francillon and Wm. Senior. . 10 

657 Christmas Angel. By B. L. Far- 

jeon 10 

658 History of a Week, The. By 

Mrs. L. B. Walford 10 

659 Wait of the “ Cynthia,” The. 

By Jules Verne 20 

660 Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 1st half 20 

' 660 Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 2d half 20 

661 Rainbow Gold. By David Chris- 

tie Murray 20 

662 Mystery of Allan Grale, The. By 

Isabella Fyvie Mayo 20 

663 Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover 20 

664 Rory O’More. By Samuel Lover 20 
6^ Dove in the Eagle’s Nest, The. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

666 My Young Alcides. By Char- 

lotte M. Yonge 20 

667 Golden Lion of Granpere, The. 

By Anthony Trollope 20 

668 Half-Way. An Anglo-French 

Romance 20 

669 PhNosophy of Whist, The. By 

William Pole 20 

670 Rose and the Ring, The. By 

W. M. Thackeray. Illustrated 10 

671 Don Gesualdo. By“Ouida.”.. 10 

672 In Maremraa. By Ouida.” 1st 

OQ 

672 In Maremma. By “ Ouida.” 2d 

half 20 

673 Story of a Sin. By Helen B. 

Mathers 20 

674 First Person Singular. By Da- 

vid Christie Murray 20 

675 Mrs. Dymond. By Miss Thacke- 

ray 20 

676 Child’s History of England, A. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

677 Griselda. By the author of " A 

Woman’s Love-Story ” 20 

678 Dorothy’s Venture. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

679 Where Two Ways Meet. By 

Sarah Doudney 10 

680 Fast and Loose. By Arthur 

Griffiths 20 

681 Singer’s Story, A. By May 

Laffan 10 

682 In the ]\Iiddle Watch. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

683 Bachelor Vicar of Newforth, 

The. By Mrs. J. Harcourt-Roe 20 

684 Last Days at Apswich - .10 

685 England under Gladstone. 1880 

—1885. By Justin H. McCar- 
thy, M.P 20 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde. By Robert Louis 
Stevenson 10 

687 Country Gentleman, A. By Mrs. 


Oliphant. .. y 


Man of Honor, A. By John 
Strange Winter. Illustrated. 10 
Heir Presumptive, The. By 


Florence Marryat 20 

Far From the Madding Crowd. 

By Thomas Hardy 20 

Valentine Strange. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

Mikado, The. and other Comic 
Operas. Written by W. S. 
Gilbert. Composed by Arthur 

Sullivan 20 

Felix Holt, the Radical. By 

George Eliot 20 

John Maidment. By Julian 
Sturgis 20 

Hearts : Queen, Knave, and 
Deuce. By David Christie 

Murray 20 

Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss 

Jane Porter 20 

Pretty Jailer, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

Pretty Jailer, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

Life’s Atonement, A. By David 
Christie Murray 20 


Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 
F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half. . 20 


F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half. ... 20 
Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. First half 20 

Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. Second half 20 

Woman in White, The. Wilkie 
Collins. Illustrated. 1st half 20 
Woman in White, The. Wilkie 
Collins. Illustrated. 2d half 20 
Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 
lins. First half 20 

Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 
lins. Second half 20 

House Divided Against Itself, 

A. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

Prince Otto. By R. L. Steven- 
son 10 

Woman I Loved, The, and the 
Woman Who Loved Me. By 

Isa Blagden 10 

Crimson Stain, A. By Annie 

Bradshaw 10 

Silas Marner; The Weaver of 
Raveloe. B.y George Eliot. . . 10 


Ormond. By Maria Edgeworth 20 
Zenobia; or. The Fall of Pal- 
myra. By William Ware. 


First half 20 

Zenobia, or, The Fall of Pal- 
myra. By William Ware. 

Second half 10 

Greatest Heiress in England, 

The. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

Cardinal Sin, A. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “ Called 

Back ” 20 

For Maimie’s Sake. By Grant 
Allen 20 


688 

689 

690 

691 

692 

693 

694 

695 

"696 

697 

697 

698 

699 

699 

700 

700 

701 

701 

702 

702 

703 

704 

705 

706 

707 

708 

709 

709 

710 

711 

712 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Editiok. 


18 


713 “ Cherry Ripe.” By Helen B. 

Mathers 20 

714 ’Twixt Love and Duty. By 

Tighe Hopkins 20 

715 I Have Lived and Loved. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

716 Victor and Vanquished. By 

Mary Cecil Hay... 20 

717 Beau Tancrede; or, the Mar- 

riage Verdict. By Alexander 
Dumas 20 

718 Unfairly Won. By Mrs. Power 

O’Donoghue 20 

719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. 

By Lord Byron 10 

720 Paul Clifford. By Sir E. Bulwer 

Lytton, Bart 20 

721 Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester. . . 20 

722 What’s Mine’s Mine. By George 

Macdonald 20 

723 Mauleverer’s Millions. By T. 

Wemyss Reid 20 

724 My Lord and My Lady. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

725 My Ten Yeara’ Imprisonment. 

By Silvio Pellico 10 

726 My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester. . 20 

727 Fair Women. By IMrs. Forrester 20 

728 Janet’s Repentance. By George 

Eliot 10 

729 Mignon. By Mrs. Forrester... 20 

730 Autobiography of Benjamin 

Franklin, The 10 

731 Bayou Bride, The. By Mrs. 

Mary E. Bryan 20 

732 From Olympus to Hades. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

733 Lady Branksmere. By “The 

Duchess ” 20 

734 Viva. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

735 Until the Day Breaks. By 

Emily Spender 20 

736 Roy and Viola. Mrs. Forrester 20 

737 Aunt Rachel. By David Christie 

Murray 10 

738 In the Golden Days. By Edna 

Lyall 20 

739 Caged Lion, The. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

740 Rhona. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

741 Heiress of Hilldrop, The; or, 

The Romance of a Young 
Girl. By Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of Dora Thorne ”... 20 

742 Love and Life. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 1st half 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 
Russell. 2d half 20 


744 Diana Carew ; or. For a Wom- 

an’s Sake. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A Strug- 

gle forLove. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

746 Cavalry Life; or. Sketches and 

Stories in Barracks and Out. 

By J. S. Winter 20 


Our Sensation Novel. Edited 
by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 10 
Hurrish : A Study. By the 

Hon. Emily Lawless 20 

Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter. By 
Mabel Collins 20 


An Old Story of My Farming 
Days. Fritz Reuter. 1st half 20 
An Old Story of My Farming 
Days. Fritz Reuter. 2d half 20 
Gi’eat Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Jules Verne. 1st half 20 
Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gator. Jules Verne. 2d half 20 
Jackanapes, and Other Stories. 

By Juliana Horatio Ewing. . . 10 
King Solomon’s Mines. By H. 


Rider Haggard 20 

How to be Happy Though Mar- 
ried. By a Graduate in the 

University of Matrimony 20 

Margery Daw. A Novel 20 

Strange Adventures of Captain 
Dangerous, The. By George 

Augustus Sala 20 

Love’s Martyr. By Laurence 

Alma Tadema 10 

“ Good-bye, Sweetheart!” By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

In Shallow Waters. By Annie 

Armitt 20 

Aurelian ; or, Rome in the Third 
Century. By William Ware. 20 
Will Weatherhelm. By William 

H. G. Kingston 20 

Impressions of Theophrastus 

Such. By George Eliot 10 

Midshipman, The, MarmaUuke 
Jlerry. Wm. H. G. Kingston. 20 
Evil Genius, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

Not Wisely, But Too Well. By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

No. XIII. ; or. The Story of the 
Lost Vestal. Emma Marshall 10 
Joan. By Rhoda Broughton. . 20 
Red as a Rose is She. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

Cometh Up as a Flower. By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

Castle of Otranto, The. By 

Horace Walpole 10 

Mental Struggle, A. By “ The 

Duchess ” 20 

Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood 


Life and Travels of Mungo 

Park The 10 

Three Clerks, The. By Anthony 

Trollope 20 

PSre Goriot. By H. De Balzac 20 

Voyages and Travels of Sir 
John Maundeville, Kt., The.. 10 
Society’s Verdict. By the au- 
thor of “ My Marriage ” 20 

Doom! An Atlantic Episode. 


By Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 10 


747 

748 

749 

750 

750 

751 

751 

752 

>53 

754 

755 

756 

757 

758 

759 

760 

761 

762 

763 

764 

765 

766 

767 

768 

769 

770 

771 

772 

773 

774 

775 

776 

777 

778 

779 


II 


THE SEASIDE LTEHAHY— Pocket Edition. 


780 Rare Pale Margaret. By the au- 

tlior of “ What's His Offence?” 20 

781 Secret Dispatch, The. By James 

Orant 10 

782 Closed Door, The, By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

782 Closed Doo”, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

783 Cliautry House. By Charlotte 

31. Yonge 20 

784 Two 3Iiss Flemings, The. By au- 

thor of “What’s His Offence?” 20 

785 Haunted Chamber, The. By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

780 Ethel 3Iildmay’s Follies. By 
author of “ Petite’s Romance ” 20 

787 Court Royal. A Story of Cross 

Currents. By S. Baring-Gould 20 

788 Ab.seiitee, The. An Irish Story. 

By 3Iaria Edgeworth 20 

789 H'hrough the Booking-Glass, 

and What Alice Found There. 

By Lewis Carroll. With fifty 
illustrations by John Tenniel. 20 

790 Chaplet of Pearls, The; or, The 

White and Black Ribaumont. 
Charlotte 31. Yonge. 1st half 20 

790 Chaplet of Pearls, The; or, The 

Wliite and Black Ribaumont. 
Charlotte 31. Yonge. 2d half 20 

791 Mayor of CasterbriUge, The. By 


Thomas Hardy 20 

792 Set in Diamonds. By Charlotte 

31. Braeme, author of ” Dora 
Thorne” 20 

793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 

Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 
Beaconsfield. First half 20 

793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 

Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 
Beaconsfield. Second half. . . 20 

794 Beaton’s Bargain. By 3Irs. Al- 

exander 20 

795 Sam’s Sweetheart. By Helen 

B. 3Iathers 20 

796 In a Grass Country. By 3Irs. 

H. Lovett Cameron...* 20 

797 Look Before You Leap. By 

3Irs. Alexander 20 

798 Fashion of this World, The. By 

Helen B. 3Iathers 10 

799 3Iy Lady Green Sleeves. By 

Helen B. 3Iathers 20 


800 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 20 

800 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 

from the IJfe of a Spinster. 
Charlotte 31. Yonge. 2d half 20 

801 She Stoops to Concpier, and 

The Good-Natured Man. By 


Oliver Goldsmith 10 

802 Stern Chase, A. By 3Irs.Cashel- 

Hoey 20 

803 3Iajor Frank. By A. L. G. Bos- 

boom-Toussaint 20 


804 Living or Dead. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back ” 20 


Fieres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. Isfc half 20 

Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 2d half 20 

Her Dearest Foe. By 3Irs. Alex- 
ander. First half 20 

Her Dearest Foe. By 31 rs. Alex- 
ander. Second half 20 

I f Love Be Love. D. Ceci 1 Gibbs 20 
King Arthur. Not a Love Story. 

By 3Iiss Mulock .20 

Witness 3Iy Hand. By the au- 
thor of “ Lady Gwendolen’s 

Tryst ” 10 

Secret of Her Life, The. By Ed- 
ward Jenkins 20 

Head Station, The. By 3Irs. 

Campbell-Praed 20 

No Saint. By Adeline Sergeant 20 
Army Society. IJfe in a Garri- 
son 'J'own. By John Strange 

WTnter 10 

Heritage of Langdale, The. By 

3Irs. Alexander 20 

Ralph W'ilton's Weird. By 3Irs. 

Alexander 10 

Rogues and Vagabonds. By 
George R. Sims, author of 

“’Ostler Joe” 20 

Stabbed in the Dark. By 3Irs. 

E. Lynn Linton 10 

Pluck. By John Strange 3Vinter 10 
Fallen Idol, A. By F. Anstey. . . 20 
Doris's Fortune. B3' Florence 

Warden 10 

World Between Them, The, By 
Charlotte 31. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne.” 20 

Passion Flower, A. A Novel... 20 
Heir of the Ages, The. By James 
Payn . 20 

Her Own Doing. W. E. Norris 10 
3Iaster Passion, The. By Flor- 
ence 3Iarryat 20 

Cynic Fortune. By D. Christie 

3Iurray 20 

Effie Ogilvie. Bj^ 3Irs. Oliphant ^ 
Prettiest W^oman in Warsaw, 

The. By 3Iabel Collins 20 

Actor's 3Vai*d, The. By the au- 
thor of “A Fatal Dower ”.. . 20 
Bound by a Spell. Hugh Con- 
wav, author of “ Called Back ” 20 
Pomegranate Seed. Bj' the au- 
thor of “The Two 3Iiss Flem- 
ings,” etc > 20 

Kidnafiped. Bj’ Robert Louis 

Stevenson 20 

Ticket No. “9672.” By Jules 

Verne. First half 10 

Ticket No. “9672.” By Jules 

Verne. Second lialf 10 

Ballroom Repentance* A. By 

31 rs. Annie Edwards 20 

Vivian the Beautj’. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards 20 

Point of Honor, A. By 3Irs. An- 
nie Edwards 20 


805 

805 

806 

806 

807 

808 

809 

810 

811 

812 

813 

814 

815 

816 

817 

818 

819 

820 

821 

822 

823 

824 

825 

826 

827 

828 

829 

830 

831 

832 

833 

833 

834 

835 

aso 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 15 


837 Vagabond Heroine, A. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards 10 

838 Ought We to Visit Her? By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 

839 Leaji ; A Woman of Ji'asliion. 

By Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 

840 One Thing Needlul; or. The 

Penalty of Fate. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

841 Jet: Her Face or Her Fortune? 

By Mrs. Annie Edwards 10 

842 Blue-Stocking, A. By Mrs. An- 

nie Edwards 10 

843 Archie Lovell. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

844 Susan Fielding. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

845 Philip Earnscliffe ; or. The Mor- 

als of May Fair. By Mrs. 
Annie Edwards 20 

846 Steven Lawrence. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards. 1st half 20 

846 Steven Lawrence. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards. 2d half 20 


847 Bad to Beat. By Hawley Smart 10 

848 My Friend Jiju. By W. E. Norris 10 

849 Wicked Girl, A. Mary Cecil Hay 20 

850 Playwright’s Daughter, A. By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 10 


851 Cry of Blood, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. First half 20 

851 Cry of Blood, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. Second half 20 

852 Under Five Lakes; or. The 

Cruise of the “ Destroj'er.” 

By M. Quad 20 

853 True Magdalen, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 


854 Woman’s Error, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

855 Dynamiter, The. By Robert 

Louis Stevenson and Fanny 
Van de Grift Stevenson 20 

856 New Arabian Nights. By Rob- 

ert Louis Stevenson 20 

857 Kildee ; or. The Sphinx of the 

Red House. By Mary E. 

Bryan. First half 20 

857 Kildee; or. The Sphinx of the 
Red House. By Mary E. 
Bryan. Second half 20 


858 Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret. By E. 

Marlitt 

859 Ottilie: An Eighteenth Century 

Idyl, and The Prince of the 100 
Soups. Bj'^ Vernon Lee. . . . . . 20 

860 Her Lord and Master. By Flor- 

ence Marryat • • • 20 

861 My Sister the Actress. By Flor- 

ence Marryat •••••:• Afu ' 

862 Ugly Barrington. By _ 

lu 

863 “My Own Child.” By Florence 


Marryat. 

864 “ No Intentions.” 
Marryat 


By Florence 


865 Written in Fire. By Florence 

Marryat 20 

866 Miss Harrington’s Husband; or. 

Spiders of Society. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

867 Girls of Feversham, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

868 Petronel. By Florence Marryat 20 

869 Poison of Asps, The. By Flor- 

ence Marryat 10 

870 Out of His Reckoning. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

871 Bachelor’s Blunder, A. By W . 

E. Norris 20 

872 With Cupid’s Eyes. By Flor- 

ence Marryat 20 

873 Harvest of Wild Oats, A. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

874 House Party, A. By “ Ouida ”. 10 

875 Lady Val worth's Diamonds. By 

“ The Duchess ” 20 

876 Mignon’s Secret. John Strange 

Winter 10 

877 Facing the Footlights. By Flor- 
ence Marrj^at 20 

878 Little Tu’penny. By S. Baring- 

Gould 10 

879 Touchstone of Peril, The. By 

R. E. Forrest 20 

880 Son of His Father, The. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

881 Mohawks. Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

882 Children of Gibeon. By W'^alter 

Besant 20 

883 Once Again. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

884 Voyage to the Cape, A. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

885 Les Mis6rables. Victor Hugo. 

Part I 

885 Les Mis6rables. Victor Hugo. 
Part H 

885 Les Mis6rables. Victor Hugo. 

Part III 

886 Paston Carew, Millionaire and 

Miser. Mrs. E. Lynn Linton 

887 Modern Telemachus, A. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

888 Treasure Island. Robert Louis 

Stevenson 10 

889 An Inland Voj’age, By Robert 

Louis Stevenson 10 

890 Mistletoe Bough, The. C*^rist- 

mas, 1886. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon ^ 

891 Vera Nevill; or, Poor Wisdom’s 

Chance. By Mrs. H. Lovett 
Cameron — •• 

892 That Winter Night; or. Love s 

Victory. Robert Buchanan. . 

893 Love's Conflict. By Florence 

Marryat. First half 

893 Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

Marrvat. Second half 20 

894 Doctor Cupid. By Rhoda 

Broughton •••• 20 

895 Star and a Heart, A. By Flor- 

ence Marryat v. 

896 Guilty River, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 


20 

20 

20 

20 


20 

10 

20 


IG 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


897 Ange. By Florence Marryat. . . 20 

898 BulldogandButterfly, and Julia 

and Her Romeo, by David 
Christie Murray, and Romeo 


and Jnliet, by William Black. 20 

899 Little Stepson, A. By Florence 

Marryat 10 

900 Woman’s Wit, By. By Mrs. Al- 

exander 20 

901 Lucky Disappointment, A. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

902 Poor Gentleman, A. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

903 Phyllida. By Florence Marryat 20 

904 Holy Rose, The. By Walter Be- 

sant 10 

905 Fair-Haired Alda, The. By Flor- 

ence Marryat 20 

906 World Went Very Well Then, 

The. By Walter Besant 20 

907 Bright Star of Life, The. By 

B. L. Far jeon 20 

908 Willful Young Woman, A 20 

909 Nino of Hearts, The. By B. L. 

Far jeon 20 

910 She: A History of Adventure. 

By H. Rider Haggard 20 

911 Golden Bells: A Peal in Seven 

Changes. By R. E. Francillon 20 

912 Pure Gold. By Mrs. H. Lovett 

Cameron 20 

913 Silent Shore, The. By John 

Bloundelle- Burton 20 

914 Joan Wentworth. By Katha- 

rine S. Macquoid 20 

915 That Other Person. By Mrs. 

Alfred Hunt 20 

916 Golden Hope, The. By W. Clark 

Rnssell 20 

917 Case of Reuben Malachi, The. 

By H. Sutherland Edwards. . 10 

918 Red Band, The. By F. Du Bois- 

gobey. First half 20 

918 Red Band, The. By F. Du Bois- 

gobey. Second half 20 

919 Locksley Hall Sixty Years Af- 

ter, etc. By Alfred, Lord 
Tennyson, P.L., D.C.L 10 

920 Child of the Revolution, A. By 

the author of “ Mademoiselle 
Mori ” 20 

921 Late Miss Hollingford, The. 

By Rosa Mulholland 10 

922 Marjorie. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne.” 20 

287 At War With Herself. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

923 At War With Herself. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 
edition) 20 

924 ’Twixt Smile and Tear. Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
•“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

925 The Outsider. Hawley Smart. 20 

926 Springhaven. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 


927 Sweet Cymbeline. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 


i “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

294 Hilda; or. The False Vow. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme. .* 10 

928 Hilda; or, The False Vow. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne.” (Large 
type edition) 20 

929 The Belle of Lynn; or. The 

Miller's Daughter. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

930 Uncle Max. By RosaNouchette 

Carey 20 

931 Lady Diana’s Pride. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

932 Queenie’s Whim. Rosa Nou- 

chette Carej^ 20 

933 A Hidden Terror. Mary Albert 20 

934 Wooed and Married. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 20 

935 Borderland. Jessie Fothergill. 20 

936 Nellie’s Memories. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 20 

937 Cashel Byron’s Profession. By 

George Bernard Shaw 20 

938 Cranford. By Mrs. Gaskell 20 

939 Why Not? Florence Marryat.. 20 

940 The Jlerry Men, and Other Tales 

and Fables. By Robert Louis 
Stevenson 20 

941 Jess. By H. Rider Haggard ... 20 

942 Cash on Delivery. By F. Du 

Boisgohey 20 

943 Weavers and Weft; or, “ Love 

that Hath Us in His Net.” By 
Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

944 The Professor. By Charlotte 

Bront6 20 

945 The Trumpet-Major. Thomas 

Hardy 20 

946 The Dead Secret. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners; or, Lu- 

cius Davoren. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon. First half 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners; or, Lu- 

cius Davoren. By Miss M. E. 

- Braddon. Second half 20 

293 The Shadow of a Sin. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

948 The Shadow of a Sin. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne.” (Large type 
edition) 20 

949 Claribel’s Love Story; or, 

Love’s Hidden Depths. By 
Charlotte ]\I. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne” 20 


25 Mrs. Geoffre3^ By “ The Duch- 
ess.” (Large type edition). . . 20 
950 Mrs. Geoffrey. “The Duchess” 10 
459 Woman’s Temptation, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne.” (Large 
type edition) 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


17 


951 Woman's Temptation, A. By 


Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Doi’a Thoime ” 10 

295 Woman’s War, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 


952 Woman’s War, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne.” (Lai*ge type edition) 20 
297 Hilary's Folly; or. Her Mar- 
riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 

953 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 

riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of ” Dora 
Thorne.” (Large type edition) 20 

954 A Girl’s Heart. By the author 


of ‘‘Nobody’s Darling” 20 

238 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 
From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 

955 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 

From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of ‘‘Dora Thorne.” (Large 
type edition) 20 

956 Her Johnnie. By Violet Whyte 20 

957 The Woodlanders. By Thomas 

Hardy 20 

958 A Haunted Life; or, Her Terri- 

ble Sin. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ”... 20 


959 Dawn. By H. Rider Haggard. 20 
900 Elizabeth’s Fortune. By Bertha 
Thomas 20 

961 Wee Wifie. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey 20 

962 Sabina Zembra. William Black 20 

903 Worth Winning. By Mrs. H. 

Lovett Cameron 20 

904 A Struggle for the Right; or, 

Tracking the Truth 20 

965 Periwinkle. By Arnold Gray.. 20 

906 He, by the author of “King 

Solomon’s Wives”; and A 
Siege Babj^ and Childhood’s 
Memories, by J. S. Winter.... 20 
237 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
‘‘ Dora Thorne.” (Large type 
Edition) 20 

907 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

968 Blossom and Fruit; or, Ma- 

dame’s AYard. By the author 
of ‘‘Wedded Hands” 20 

969 The Mystery of Colde Fell ; or. 

Not Proven. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of ‘‘ Dora 
Thorne” 20 

970 King Solomon’s AVives; or. The 

Phantom Mines. By Hyder 
Ragged. (Illustrated) 20 

971 Garrison Gossip: Gathered in 

Blankhampton. John Strange 
AVinter 20 

972 Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt 20 


Persons Avlio wisli to purchase the foregoing works in a complete 
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The works in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, are printed from 
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{When ordering by mail please order by numbers.] 


The Seaside Library is Never Out ef Print. 


THE SEASIDE LTBRARY.-Poclcet Edition. 

Always Uiicliaiigetl and. Unabridged. 

LATES'J’ ISSOES: 


NO. PRICK. 

669 Pole on Whif?t 20 

432 THE WITCH’S HEAD. By 


25 Mrs. Geoffrey. “The Duchess” 

(Large type edition) 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeine, author of 
“DoraTJiorne.” (Large type 

edition) 20 

459 A Woman’s Temptation. By 
Charlotte AI. Braeme. (Large 

type edition) 20 

922 Alarjorie. Charlotte AI. Braeme, 

author of " Dora Thorne ”... 20 
924 ’Twixt Smile and Tear. Char- 
lotte AI. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

927 Sweet Cymbeline. By Cliar- 
lotte Ai. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Tliorne ” 20 

929 Tlie Belle of Lynn; or, The 
Miller's Daughter. By Char- 
lotte AI. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

931 Lady Diana’s Pride. By Char- 
lotte AI. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

933 .'V Hidden Terror. Alary Albert 20 
935 Borderland. Jessie Fothergill. 20 
937 ( a.shel Byron’s Profession. By 

(leorge Bernard Shaw 20 

93S Ci’anford. By Airs. Gaskell 20 

939 Why Not? Florence Alarryat.. 20 

940 The ATerry Alen, and Other Tales 

and Fables. By Robert Louis 
Stevenson 20 

941 Jess. By H. Rider Haggard .. . 20 
912 Cash on Deliver}'. By F. Du 

Boisgobey 20 

945 The Ti’umpet-Major. Thomas 

Hardy 20 

946 The Dead Secret. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

948 The Shadow of a Sin. By Char- 

lotte AI. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne.” (Large type 
edition) 20 

949 Claribel’s Love Story; or, 

Love’s Hidden Depths. By 
Charlotte AI. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne” 20 


952 AVoman’s AVar, A. By Charlotte 

AI. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne.” (Large type edition) 20 

953 Hilary’s Folly; or, Her Alar- 

riage A’ow. By Charlotte AI. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne.” (Large type edition) 20 

954 A Girl’s Heart. By the author 

of “Nobody’s Darling” 20 


NO. PRICK 

955 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 

From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte AI. Braeme. (Large 
type edition) 20 

956 Her Johnnie. By ATolet AA’hyte 20 

957 The AA'’oodlanders. By Thomas 

Hardy 20 

958 A Haunted Life; or, Her Terri- 


ble Sin. Charlotte AI. Braeme 20 

959 Dawn. By H. Ri,ler Haggard. 20 

960 Elizabeth’s Fortunt!. By Bertha 

Thomas 20 

961 AA^ee AA’ifie. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey 20 

962 Sabina Zembra. AATlliam Black 20 

963 AA'orth AVinning. By Airs. H. 

Lovett Cameron 20 

964 A Struggle for the Right; or, 

Tracking the Truth 20 


965 Periwinkle. By Arnold Gray . . 20 

966 He, by the author of “King 

Solomon’s AA’ives ” : and A 
Siege Baby and Child noud’s 

Memories, by J. S. AATnter 20 

968 Blossom and Fruit; or. Ala- 
dame’s AA'ard. By tlie author 


of “ AA-edded Hands ” 20 

969 The Alystery of Colde Fell ; or. 

Not Proven. By Chai lotte AI. 
Braeme. author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

970 King Solomon’s AAHves; or. The 

Phantom Alines. By Hyder 
Ragged. (I Illustrated) 20 

971 Garrison Gossip: Gathered in 

Blankhampton. John Strange 
AATnter 20 

972 Gold Elsie. By E. Alarlitt 20 

973 The Squire’s Darling. By Char- 

lotte AI. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

974 Strathmore; or, AVrought by 

His Own Hand. By “ Ouida.” 
First half 20 

974 Strathmore: or, Wrought by 

His Own Hand. By “ Ouida.” 
Second half 20 

975 A Dark Alarriage Alorn. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne” 20 


976 Robur the Conqueror; or, A 

Trip Round the World in a 
Flying Alachine. Jules Verne 20 

977 The Haunted Hotel. By AVilkie 

Collins 20 

978 Her Second Love. By Char- 

lotte AI. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

980 To Call Her Aline. By AValter 
Besant 20 


The foregoing works, contained in Thk Skasidk Library, Pocket Edition, 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on 
receipt of price. Parties ordering bp mail loill please order by nnmbers. Ad- 
(lr6ss 

GEORGE MUNRO, Muuro’s Publishing Ilonset 
P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N, Y. 


Nachfolgende Werke sind in der ,,Deiitschen Library*' crscliienen; 


I T)er Kaiser vou Prof. G. Ebers. 
I)ie Somosierra vou R. Walil- 

niuHer 

3 Das Geheimuiss der alten Mam- 
stdl. Roman vou E. IVIariitt. 

■1 Quisisaua vou Fr. Spielha^eu 
5 Garteulaubeu- Bliilheu vou E. 

Werner 

C Die Hand der Nemesis vou E. 

A. Koni^ 

T AmUnann’s Maird v. E Marlitt 

8 Vineta von E. Werner 

9 Anf der Ruinniingsburg vou M. 

Widderu 

10 Das Hans Ilillel von Max Riug 

II Gliickauf! von E. Werner 

W (Joldelse von E. Marlilt 

13 Vater und Solin von F. Lewald 

14 Die V.'urger von Paris vou C. 

Vacano 

15 Der Dianiantschleifer von Ro- 

seullial Bonin 

IG Iniro und lu'^raban von Gustav 
Frevla.; 

17 Eino Fri'ge von Georg Ebers.. 

18 Im Faradiese von Paul He 3 'se 

19 In beiden Ilemisphareu von 

Sutro 

20 Gelebt undgelittenvon H. Wa- 

cbenliuseh 

21 Die Eichhofs vou M. von Rei- 

elienbach 

22 Kinder der Welt von P. Heyse. 

Erste Hiilfte 

22 Kinder der Welt von P. Ileyse. 

Zweite Hiilfte 

23 Barfiissele von Berthold Auer- 

bach 

24 Das Nest der Zaunkdnige von 

G. Frey tag 

25 Friihlingsboten von E. Werner 

26 Zelle No. 7 von Pierre Zacoue 

27 Die junge Frau v. H. Wachen- 

husen 

28 Buchenheim von Th. v. Varu- 

biiler 

29 Auf der Balm des Verbreebeus 

V. Ewald A. Kcinig 

80 Brigitta von Berth. Auerbach . . 

31 Im Scliillingshof v. E. Marlitt 

32 Gesprengte Fesseln v. E. Wer- 

ner • •• 

33 Der Heiduck von Hans Wa- 

chenhusen 

34 Die Sturmhexe von Grafin M. 

Ktfyserling VA”!’ 

85 Das Kind Bajazzo’s von E. A. 

Konig 

86 Die Briider vom deutschen 

Hause von Gustav Freytag. . 

87 Der Wilddieb v. F. Gerstacker 
38 Die Verlobte von Rob, Wald- 

jnttller 


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39 Der Doppelgiinger von L. 

Schticking 1C 

40 Die weisso F’rau vou Greifeu- 

stein von E. Fels 20 

41 Hans und Greto vou Fr. Spiel- 

hageu 10 

42 Mein Onkel Don J uan vou H. 

Hopfen 20 

43 Markus Konig v. Gustav Frey- 

tag 20 

44 Die schonen Amerikanerinnen 

von Fr. Spielhagen 10 

45 Das grosse Loos v. A. Konig. . 20 

46 Zur Ehre Gottes von Saclier 

und Ultimo v. F. Spielhageu 10 

47 Die Geschwister von Gustav 

Freytag 20 

48 Bischof uud Konig von Mariam 

Tenger uud Der Pirateuko- 
nig vou M. Jokai 10 

49 Reichsgrafin Gisela v. Marlitt 20 

50 BewegteZeitenv.Leou Alexau- 

drowitsch 10 

51 Um Ehre und Leben von E. A. 

Konig 20 

52 Aus einer kleinen Stadt v. Gu- 

stav Frey tag 20 

53 Hildegard von Ernst v.Waldow 10 

54 Darne Orange von Hans Wa- 

chenhusen 20 

55 Johannisnacht von I\I. Scluuidt 10 

56 Angela von Fr. Spielhageu... 20 

57 Faische Wege vou J. v. Bruu- 

Barnow .■ 10 

58 Versunkeue Welteu vou Wilh. 

Jensen 20 

59 Die Wohnungssucher von A. 

von Winterfeld 10 

60 Eine Million von E. A, Konig 20 

61 Das Skelet von F. Spielhageu 

und Das Frolenhaus vou Gu- 
stav zu Putlitz 10 

62 Soli und Haben v. G. Freytag. 

Erste Hiilfte 20 

62 Soli und Haben v. G. Freytag. 

Zweite Hiilfte 20 

63 Schloss Griinwald von Char- 

lotte Fielt 10 

Ci4 Zwei Kreuzherreu von Lucian 

Herbert 20 

65 Die Erlebnisse einer Schutzlo- 

sen V. Kath. Sutro-Schiickiug 10 

66 Das Haldeprinzesschen von E. 

Marlitt 20 

67 Die Ges^er-Wally vou Wilh. von 

Hillern 10 

68 Idealisten von A. Reinow 20 

69 Am Altar von E. Werner 10 

70 Der Konig der Luft von A. v. 

Winterfeld 20 

71 Moschko von Parma v. Karl E. 

Frauzos Ir 




DIE DEUTSCEE LIBRARY. 


72 Schulcl und Siihne von Ewald 

A. Konig^ 

73 In Reih’ und Glied v. F. Spiel- 

hagen. Erste Halfte 

73 In lleih’ und Glied v. F. Spiel- 

hagen. Zweite Halfte 

74 Geheimnisse einer kleinen 

Stadt von A. von Winterfeld 
73 Das Landhaus am Rhein von 

B. Auerbach. Erste Halfte.. 

75 Das Landhaus am Rhein von 

B. Auerbach. Zweite Halfte 

76 Clara Vere von Friedrich Spiel- 

hagen 

77 Die Frau Burgermeisterin von 

G. Ebers 

78 Aus eigener Kraft von Wilh. 

V. Hillern 

79 Ein Kampf urn’s Recht von K. 

Franzos 

80 Prinzessin Schnee von Marie 

Widdern 

81 Die zweite Frau von E. Marlitt 

82 Benvenuto von Fanny Lewald 

83 Pessimisten von F. von Stengel 

84 Die Hofdame der Erzherzogin 

von F. von Witzleben-Wen- 
delstein 

85 Ein Vierteljahrhundert von B. 

Young 

86 Thiiringer Erztlhlungen von E. 

Marlitt 

87 Der Erbe von Mortella von A. 

Dom 

88 Vom armen egyptischen Mann 

V. Hans Wachenhusen 

89 Der goldene Schatz aus dem 

dreissigjahrigen Krieg v. E. 
A. Konig 

90 Das Fraulein von St. Ama- 

ranthe von R. von Gottschall 

91 Der Fiirst von Montenegro v. 

A. Winterfeld 

92 Um ein Herz von E. Falk 

93 Uarda von Georg Ebers 

94 In der zwolften Stunde von 

Fried. Spielhagen und Ebbe 
und Fluth von M. Widdern... 

95 Die von Hohenstein von Fr. 

Spielhagen. Erste Haifte. . 

95 Die von Hohenstein von Fr. 

Spielhagen. Zweite Halfte.. 

96 Deutsch und Slavisch v. Lucian 

Herbert 

97 Im Hause des Commerzieu- 

Raths von Marlitt 

98 Helene von H. Wachenhusen 

und Die Prinzessin von Poi’- 
tugal V. A. Meissner 

99 Aspasia von Robert Hammer- 

ling 

100 Ekkehard v. Victor v. Scheffel 

101 Ein Kampf um Rom v. F.Dahn. 

Erste Halfte 

101 Ein Kampf um Rom v. F.Dahn. 

Zweite Halfte 

102 Spinoza von Berth. Auerbach. 

103 Von der Erde zum Moud von 

J. Verne 


Der Todesgruss der Legiouen 

von G. Samarow 20 

Reise um den Mond von Julius 

Verne 10 

Fiirst und Musiker von Max 

Ring 20 

Nena Sahib v. J. Retcliflfe. Er- 

ster Band 20 

Nena Sahib von J. Retclitfe. 

Zweiter Band 20 

Nena Sahib von J. Retcliffe. 

DritterBand 20 

Reise nach dem Jlittelpunkte 
der Erde von Julius Verne 10 
Die silberne Hochzeit von S. 

Kohn 10 

Das Spukehaus von A. v. Win- 
terfeld 20 

Die Erben des Wahnsinns von 

T. Marx 10 

Der Ulan von Joh. van Dewall 10 
Um hohen Preis v. E. Werner 20 
Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 
ten von B. Auerbach. Erste 


Halfte 20 

Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 
ten V. B. Auerbach. Zweite 

Halfte 20 

Reise um die Erde von Julius 

Verne 10 

Casars Ende von S. J. R. 

(Scbluss von 104) 20 

Auf Capri von Carl Detlef 10 

Severa von E. Hartner 20 

Ein Arzt der Seele von Wilh. 

V. Hillern 20 

Die Livergnas von Hermann 

Willfried 10 

Zwanzigtausend l\Ieilen un- 
term Meer von J. Verne 20 

Mutter und Sohn von August 

Godin 10 

Das Haus des Fabrikanten v. 

Samarow 20 

Bruderpflicht und Liebe von 

Schiicking 10 

Die Rdmerfahrt der Epigonen 
V. G. Samarow. Erste Halfte 20 


Die Romerfahrt der Epigonen 
V. G. Samarow. Zweitellalfte 20 
Porkeles und Porkelessa von 


J Scherr 10 

Ein Friedensstdrer von Victor 
Biiithgen und Der heimliche 

Gast von R. Byr 20 

Schdne Frauen v. R. Edmund 

Hahn lO 

Bakchen und Thyrsostrilger 

von A. Niemann 20 

Getreunt. Roman von E.Polko 10 
Alte Ketten. Roman von L. 

Schiicking 20 

Ueber die Wolken v. Wilhelm 

Jensen 20 

Das Gold des Orion von 

Roaenthal-Bonin lo 

Um den Halbmond von Sama- 
row. Erste Halfte 20 


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131 Uni cl<‘n Halbninnd von Saina- 

row. Zweite Hali te 

135 Troubadour -.Novellen von P. 

Jleyse 

13G Der Schweden-Schatz vou H. 
Wacheuhusen 

137 Die Bettlerin vom Pont des 

Arts und Das Bild des Kaisers 
von Willi. Hauff 

138 Modelle. Hist. Roman von A. v, 

Wiuterfeid 

139 Der Krieqr nm die Ilaube von 

Stefanie Keyser * 

1-10 Nunia Roumestan v. Alphonse 
Daudet 

141 Spatsommer. Novelle von O. 

vou Sydow und Engelid, No- 
velle V. Balduin Iddllhausen 

142 Barloloinaus von Brusehaver 

u. Musma Cussaliu. Novellen 
von L. Ziemssien 

143 Ein ^emeuchelter Dichter. Ko- 

niischer Roman von A. von 

Winterfeld. Erste Halfte 

143 Ein gemeuchelier Dichter. Ko- 
niischer Roman von A. von 
Winterfeld. Zweite Halfte. . 
141 Ein Wort. Neuer Roman von 
G. Ebers 

145 N<)vellen von Paul IIe.yse 

146 Adam Homo in Versen v. Pa- 

liidan-Muller 

147 Ilir einzif^er Bruder von W. 

Ileimburs', 

148 Ophelia. Roman von H. von 

Lankeuau 

140 Nemesis v. Helene v. Hiilsen 

150 Felicitas. Histor. Roman von 

F. Dahn 

151 Die Claudier. Roman v. Ernst 

Eckstein 

152 Eine Verloreue von Leopold 

Kompei't 

153 Luginsland. Roman von Otto 

Roquette 

154 Im Banne der Musen von W. 

Heimburg 

155 Die Sclnvester v. L. Schiicking 

156 Die Colonie von Friedrich Ger- 

stiicker 

157 Deutsche Liebe. Roman v. M. 

Miiller 

158 Die Rose vou Dellii von Fels. 

Erste Halfte 

158 Die Rose von Delhi von Fels. 

Zweite Hiilfto 

159 Debora. Roman von W. Muller 


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160 Eine Mutter v. Friedrich Ger- 

stacker 

161 Friedhofsblume von W. von 

Hillern 

162 Nach der ersten Liebe von K. 

Freuzel 

163 Gel)anut u. erldst v. E. Werner 

164 Uhlenhans. Roman von 1 ried. 

Spielliagen 

165 Klytia. Histor. Roman von G. 

Taylor 

166 Mayo. Erzahlung v. P. Lindau 

167 Die Herrin vou Ibichstein von 

F. Henkel 

168 Die Saxoborussen von Sama- 

row. Erste Halfte 

168 Die Saxoborussen von Sama- 

row. Zweite Halfte 

169 Serapis. Histor. Roman v. G. 

Ebers 

170 Ein Gottesurtheil. Roman von 

E. Werner 

171 Die Kreuzfahrer. Roman von 

Felix Dahn 

172 Der Erbe von Weidenhof von 

F. Pelzeln 

173 Die Reise nach dem Schicksal 

V. Franzos 

174 Villa Schduow. Roman v. W. 

Raabe 

175 Das Vermachtniss v. Eckstein. 

Erste Halfte 

175 Das Vermachtniss v. Eckstein. 

Zweite Halfte 

176 Herr und Frau Bewer von P. 

Lindau 

177 Die Nihilisten von Joh. Scherr 

178 Die Frau mit den Karfunkel- 

steinen von E. Marlitt 

179 Jetta. Von George Taylor 

180 Die Stieftochter. Von J. Smith 

181 An der Heilquelle. Von Fried. 

Spielhagen 

182 Was der Todtenkopf erzShlt, 

von Jokai 

183 Der Zigeunerbaron, von Jokai 

184 Himmli.sche u. irdische Liebe, 

vou Paul Heyse 

185 Ehre, Roman v. O. Schubin . . . 

186 Violanta, Roman V. E. Eckstein 

187 Nemi, Erzahlung von H. Wa- 

chenhuseji 

188 Strandgut. von Joh. v. Dewall. 

Erste Halfte 

188 Strandgut, von Joh. v. Dewall. 

Zweite HSlfte • — 

189 Homo sum, Roman von Georg 

Ebers 


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PRICE 25 CENTS. 


For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail, postage free, on receipt of 
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MUNRO’S STAR RECITATIONS. 

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Entirely New, Choice and Entertaining Collection of Humorous, Comic, 
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MUNRO’S STAR RECITATIONS 

CONTAINS AL9© 

A Lively One- Act Comedy, and Character and Tableau Recitations Suitable 
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The whole carefully revised, innocently amusing, instructive and enter- 
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For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail to any address, postage pre- 
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GEORGE MUNRO, Miinro’s Publishing House, 

(P. O. Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 



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